It Isn't Over Yet
by WollstonecraftHomeGirl
Summary: Imagines how the Lady Edith and Sir Anthony relationship might progress after the events of season 3 and the Christmas special. Likely to move into M territory in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter One_

Edith Crawley lay dead still in the bed. She felt an utterly peculiar combination of physical nausea and emotional vacancy.

It had all seemed so sensible the previous evening. She had informed Aunt Rosamund's new maid that she was attending a play with a friend and she would likely stay over. Then she had rushed through the front door before any questions could be asked. The maid was ignorant and embarrassed and Aunt Rosamund was at dinner.

There was no play. There was no friend, not really, not after tonight.

It had been nearly impossible to choose an outfit. It needed to be appropriate for the evening but not look out of place in the morning. She presumed she wouldn't have the attendance of a maid so she had to be able to dress, and undress, herself. After much thought she had chosen a fitted navy skirt with buttons running up the back and a loose peach silk top edged with purple darts. It was far more daytime than evening so she added two strands of sparkling pearls. She left her hair alone; she knew the set finger waves would last.

Instead of taking the car towards Covent Garden and the theatre lights of London Edith Crawley instructed the driver to take her to Southwark. She had never been south of the river. Columns and rigid, white facades soon transitioned into plain brick and uniform sash windows as the car sped Edith to her destination.

"Hello, darling" said Michael Gregson plainly as he opened the door. Edith was briefly shocked at his overt familiarity but she quickly corrected herself. She knew why she was here; on his doorstep, in his hall, divested of her coat and so quickly into his dining room. She knew why she had come, and so did he, it seemed.

Edith had been ready to draw a line under Michael Gregson when she found out about his wife. Insane or not, a wife remained a wife. Michael Gregson, however, was not ready to draw a line under Edith Crawley. He had sent numerous letters; he had begged her to keep writing for _The Sketch_ extoling the virtues of her writing and offering an alternative editor. Edith felt valued for the first time in her life. She also felt, wanted. Chased, even. So she agreed to keep writing and she never asked for a new editor. They met in London to pour over her latest articles and they had lunches and dinners and idle flirtation. She hid it, of course. She never mentioned Gregson. He remained merely 'her editor'. She never acknowledged the time they spent together, not even to herself.

For the first time since that one blissful month in May, Edith began to feel like a whole person again.

Even after all of that, Gregson's declaration of love at Duneagle had been unexpected. Not because Edith didn't suspect where they had been leading but because she was so unaccustomed to such unequivocal declarations of feeling. It didn't solve the obvious problem, of course, but to be loved by a charming, handsome and intelligent man was a sensation she felt she hadn't known and a sensation she desperately wanted to hold on to.

The funny thing about Matthew's sad end was that it devastated everyone, but it saved Edith. Matthew was the only one who had known about Gregson's intentions. If he hadn't died Edith knew their friendship would have been ended. Once again her family would have stepped between her and her future. Edith didn't believe in fate or God or signs but she decided that she wouldn't stand by and watch life pass her by; Matthew's death had allowed her to maintain contact with Gregson. She decided to keep her promise to him that Duneagle had not played host to their last evening together.

The next few months were letters and abortive telephone calls and stolen moments amongst the shards of grief. Mary became more spiteful without Matthew's influence. Edith's parents became more withdrawn. Her father had balked and rowed when she continued to write for The Sketch in the wake of the tragedy. The focus was on the new baby, the heir. Edith was aware of her own nothingness like never before. In the midst of it all she clung to Gregson's praise and his kind words and his love as if it was all that was stopping her from falling into an abyss from which she would not return.

It had all carried her here, to this house, on this night. She took the glass of red wine Gregson offered and sipped from it nervously. "Your house is," she begun the thought but she could not finish it. It was warm and cosy and perfectly fine. The dining room was full of shades of red and deep mahogany furniture. It clearly doubled as an office of sorts, betrayed by the untidy piles of loose, white paper hurriedly hidden in the corners. But it was nothing compared to the places Edith had lived and stayed and, of course, he would know that. It felt so awfully redundant to offer platitudes.

"No one serving this evening?" she glanced at her wine glass.

"Oh, yes, well, no. That is, dinner will be set out but most of the staff have gone home and soon they will _all_ be gone, until the morning." Gregson smiled as he made the statement and looked directly at Edith.

Her blushes were spared by the arrival of dinner. It was a stew, set out in a decorative porcelain bowl and placed at the centre of the table. Bread was left, unsliced, to accompany it. With that the last of the staff was out of the room and, presumably, out of the house, very quickly. Edith wondered if they knew what was to happen, she supposed they must; they left her and Gregson so _very_ alone.

"Come, Edith." Gregson took her hand and squeezed it as he led her towards the table. He must have sensed her unease, he pulled out a chair at the end of the table and gently squeezed her shoulder as she sat down. To her surprise, he took the chair at the head of the table, at a right angle to her. Their knees touched.

"Look" he begun, whilst ladling the stew onto their plates, "I know this isn't ideal and we both wish it was different, _conventional_, I suppose. But between just the two of us, it can be conventional, here, in the house, and" he glanced upwards and placed his hand on hers, the thought was formed, of course, but not articulated, "but if you've changed your mind. I'll still love you and we can eat and you can go home. I hope you haven't." He sat back in his chair. Edith knew he'd planned the speech and had been waiting since her arrival to deliver it. She had planned enough speeches in her short life to know a prepared one.

"I haven't changed my mind. It's not conventional, I know. But it's what I want." She smiled softly, hoping she had convinced him. She had not convinced herself. He lifted her hand from where it had lay underneath his and kissed it. "Good."

They'd both said and heard what they needed to and conversation flowed with ease as they made their way through the simple meal. Edith liked Gregson's steady confidence. He said what he meant and in plain language. She liked the ripples of warmth that surrounded his mouth when he laughed at her jokes and the twinkle in his eye when he flirted.

He encouraged her to talk about Matthew. He took her hand as she described her own sense of uselessness in the face of the black dog that stalked Downton. He ran his hand along her cheek as she told him that the whole episode had made her think of Sybil and wish even more for the return of her sister's calming presence. It astonished Edith how good it felt to talk about it all. He never told her to buck up or maintain a stiff upper lip. When she was finished Gregson moved the conversation deftly away from death. They talked about Lloyd George and how Edith might cast her first vote.

Quicker than Edith would have liked dinner was eaten and the wine was drunk. Gregson had taken her hand again and they were in the front room. The red hues gave way to creams and yellows that appeared grey in the dim light. Edith knew she had not come to his house for dinner or wine; those were necessary precursors to her real purpose, to their real purpose.

She hated herself for the nerves she felt and for the uncertainty. She hated that he was married. She hated that she was not. She hated this place. She hated _him_ for driving her here. Most of all, she hated the decision she had already made that, despite all the hate she felt, she would carry on regardless of it. As Gregson sat down next to her she placed a decisive kiss onto his lips. Her nose clattered harshly into his cheek and he drew back.

"Goodness, I'm, I'm sorry" stammered Edith. "I, I just"

Gregson laughed gently at her, "don't be sorry, you caught me off guard is all." He kissed her on the corner of the mouth. "You know, I don't think I've actually said: you look absolutely lovely."

Edith glanced behind him and fixed her gaze on the bookshelf in the corner. She could see a worn copy of _Persuasion_. Quietly she said, "please, don't call me that."

"All right then, how about; beautiful, spectacular, ravishing" he almost shouted the last word believing his previous compliment had not been fervent enough.

Edith looked into his eyes again, "better" she said.

"Edith, I wanted to say before," she could see him trying to choose the words and failing. "Before we begin, that I've thought about this and about you and the danger of this arrangement for you. I intend to take precautions, that is, as far as I can and I don't want you to be alarmed when I do. It's, er, a little difficult to explain but there will come a moment, and I will.."

"Michael?" she interrupted, "I know the dangers. I know what I'm doing. That is, the risk of it all. And, I trust you Michael. But I don't want to talk about it or analyse it. Let's not think, please? Let's just feel for a bit?"

Gregson stared plainly at her for a moment, smiled, leant in and gently kissed her with rather more grace and poise than Edith had managed moments earlier. He teased open her lips and his tongue met hers. His hands wrapped around her back and his finger traced her neck. Edith stared at _Persuasion_ again. Her hands fixed in her lap. Michael pulled away and without words, led her into the hall, up the stairs and to his bedroom.

There, in the dark and in the quiet, with a nudge and a sting, Edith Crawley had her wedding night. Without the wedding that should have preceded it.

As she lay still in bed Edith willed her stomach to stop turning. Her eyes traced the shadows of the coving cast by the sliver of light breaking through the gap between the curtains. She examined the ceiling rose and furrowed her brow at the cracks near its centre. Never before had she been so aware of her breathing, was she always so loud? She hadn't had anyone to ask before, now, she supposed, she could ask Gregson.

It was meant to feel different to this, to be different. Edith had wanted this; she had chosen Gregson, she had chosen this path. It wasn't perfect but at least it was begun. The warnings she'd heard passing reference to hadn't borne out - he had been kind and attentive. "What is wrong with you?" she asked out loud to herself. Edith could give herself no answer, except to say, "something".

A steady sigh escaped from her lips and reluctantly she rolled to the other side of the bed. Gregson had gone to work. He had kissed her goodbye. His pillow was cool. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of black script on crisp paper. She righted herself in bed and sat up, grasping the note as she did so.

"_Dearest_ _Edith –_

_ I couldn't wake you, so peaceful you looked. _

_ I've arranged a car for 9am. Lunch at our place, CG, 12._

_ - Yours ever,_

_ Michael_."

Edith's eyes travelled to the carriage clock on the mantle at the end of the bed, 8.32am. With a clench of her teeth she swung her legs to the side and stood up, the paper lay crumpled on the sheets. Edith padded quietly around the bed in her silk slip to retrieve her clothes. Gregson had placed them quite carefully over the back of an armchair. Getting herself together and fixing, as best she could, the back of her hair took the better part of half an hour. The distraction was welcome; by the time she had slipped down the stairs and opened the front door she had all but forgotten the aches she felt.

The sunshine was dazzling on Gregson's street. The green paint of the car seemed to sparkle. Edith placed her hand over her eyes and looked up. The sky was a vibrant shade of deep blue. Involuntarily, she shuddered. It reminded her of him. The way she felt when she was near him. The way she felt when they touched. The way she felt in that dress. The precision of thought she had at that moment was liberating and petrifying.

_Anthony. For God's Sake, it's Anthony_.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

Anthony saw the driver discard the cigarette and step aside to allow him into the car. He briefly considered getting in and being driven away. The sleek Rolls was supposed to be his wedding car. But he was meant to be in the back of it with Edith, as man and wife, confetti littering her strawberry blonde hair. He would brush it gently off her cheek with the back of his hand. Turning away from the car he was disgusted at himself for even thinking of taking it.

The walk back to Locksley was a long one and the overcast skies gave way to light rainfall. Anthony barely felt the cold or the wet or noticed the mud caked on his shoes and at the bottom of his trousers. All he could think of was Edith.

Anthony had pictured a thousand different things about their life since he and Edith were re-acquainted after the War. His mind ran over them now: Edith holding his hand as they strolled through the orchard. Sharing dinners in the evening. Edith with her feet up on the red leather wingback chair in his study, reading a novel, him at the desk working on his papers the two of them surrounded by comfortable silence. Edith's mussed hair on the pillow in the morning. Her hand idly on his knee in the car. Her hand in other places. Ghosting kisses across her collarbone. Feeling her belly for a kick.

The life he'd pictured and lived in his mind with Edith was a more vivid and complete imagining than he'd ever experienced with anyone or anything. Anthony thought he might always have known it would never pass into reality. He had to let her go and save her for someone else, for a better life without him, because, for all the scenes of delight, there were scenes of horror too. Edith's boredom in the face of his conversation. Frustration when she had to cut his food or pour his tea. Anthony's inability, because of his arm or his age or both, to perform the duty expected of a husband. Seeing her in the corner of a crowded room laughing with some other, younger man, her hand gently touching his arm. Those scenes had peppered Anthony's mind since Christmas but they positively crowded it in the days before the wedding.

They weren't with him now though. As his foot stepped decisively onto the driveway of Locksley all he could think of was what he'd given up. His hand reached to the corner of his mouth where she'd kissed him on so many occasions. For the first time in as long as he could remember Sir Anthony Strallan found himself crying.

Reaching the house he reluctantly grasped the shiny round orb on Locksley's front door. At least, he thought to himself, he wouldn't have to undertake any tortured explanations. The car was back on the drive, all the staff had returned and those who didn't attend the wedding would surely have heard the details.

Sure enough, a cluster of staff at the base of the staircase awaited Anthony as the front door swung open. Noise and activity emanated from the group; whispers and gasps and shuffling feet. The door creaked and silence fell. One by one they turned their heads to see Anthony's silhouette in the doorway.

He turned to shut the door and when he looked back the room had cleared, only Parkes stood in front of him.

"Sir," Parkes began, he wanted to say something, Anthony could tell, it was on the edge of his tongue, dancing on his lips. Perhaps some words of comfort, some platitude of understanding, or maybe he wanted to tell him he'd been a fool, a damned, cruel fool. But with a small sigh he simply said, "I'll take your coat. Jones will be up momentarily to help you change. Can I get you anything else?"

"No. Nothing. That'll be all." Anthony glanced up the stairs but turned to his right instead and went into the front room. It was usually bathed in light but today it was grey and oppressive. He stood still for a moment in the middle of the room, frowning at the silence.

Remembering his purpose he ventured to the bureau, opened the drawer and took out his fountain pen. He rolled it in the fingers of his good hand for a moment and became aware of the wet fabric pressing at his shins. Jones would be waiting for him, a dry suit neatly pressed and set out. He turned and headed for the door slipping the pen into his waistcoat pocket. He ran his hand slowly along the back of the seat where Edith routinely sat. There were four books on the end table, neatly stacked, ready for re-shelving – two modern, one historical biography and on the top, an Austen. Edith had brought them back only a week earlier. He had joked that it could have waited, "the library will soon belong to you as well." He blinked back the tears and went to get out of his wedding clothes.

Anthony examined himself in mirror. The wool of his grey suit felt reassuring against his skin. He looked down at the Smythson box on his writing desk. With a low sigh he sat down, reached for the box, and took out three sheets of cream paper. Fountain pen in hand, he begun,

"_Dearest Edith,_"

That was it. Two words at the top of the page. There was nothing else.

An explanation would seem futile and would be futile. He loved her and had to leave her, but it was wholly inadequate. The more he tried to frame the words the worse he felt. The suit began to itch and the chair dug into the back of his legs and his shoulder ached above his useless arm. The thoughts returned. Edith reading on the _chaise longue_ in the corner. Running her fingers across the edge of his desk. Checking her hair in his mirror. Sitting on the edge of his bed. _In_ his bed.

Anthony stood up with such a start that the chair clattered to the floor behind him. He couldn't stay. Locksley was torture to him now; haunted by the ghosts of a relationship that never came to pass.

He went to find Parkes.

When Anthony returned to Locksley some twenty months later the letter to Edith – barely begun and never finished - remained on his desk.

The car reached the end of the drive and Anthony realised he had no idea where he was going. Before he knew it he had directed his driver to Cambridge and he was knocking at the door of his old Master in the surrounds of John's. There was nothing of he and Edith in the city, and there were precious few members of the opposite sex generally. He went to Hall, read in the library and took turns about the courtyards. Many of his University friends were still in Cambridge making their way as impoverished academics after doing their duty in the trenches. To them he was still the young man they got drunk with and rowed with and threw into the river at the end of tripos; they knew nothing of Edith and the life he'd swept away in a matter of minutes.

It wasn't a long-term solution, of course, so some weeks later he turned his mind reluctantly to his future. He barely had one, he knew, but he had an estate with freeholders, leaseholders, labourers and staff; he would do his duty to them. Several days after making arrangements to have Ebury Street reopened he thanked his College for the hospitality and he found himself amongst the white facades of Belgravia.

Anthony had never cared for London. It was all bustle and noise. It always made him long for Locksley and the green surrounds and quiet household. Now he was thankful for the oppression. Even as he lay awake at night he could concentrate on the sounds of the night workers and take early morning walks around Berkeley Square, lit by the streetlights he had always disliked.

During the day he busied himself with numerous meetings. His estate had boomed under his stewardship, it was probably the most successful in northern England, and it needed a careful hand to ensure it remained so. He took on a permanent estate manager. Together they discussed how it might be improved and secured into the next decades. The answer was, as Anthony expected, further mechanisation and there was only one place to source the best techniques and equipment. He booked a transatlantic crossing the next day.

Anthony was relieved. Not because he had made a plan to secure Locksley but because it so conveniently led him away from everything he couldn't face. There was no chance of running into Edith, or anyone who had even heard of her, amongst the Great Plains of the United States.

Two days before he was due to sail Anthony received an unusual note amongst the correspondence that routinely landed on his desk. It was addressed in an unmistakeably feminine hand. Whoever had written it dropped his title on the envelope. She was not a formal acquaintance, but an intimate one. Anthony lifted it off the desk to examine it. His hand shook. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. It would be Edith who wrote first, she was so much braver than him. There was no postmark. The top of the envelope was simply tucked in; it was not sealed. She probably came here to post it by hand. To his house. At his front door. Anthony slid out the letter.

"_Dear Uncle Anthony_,"

His hand clenched at the paper and he stared at the white ceiling. He berated himself out loud, "Of course it's not her. You damned, old, _fool_." She was getting on with her life, she was happy and writing to him was not on her list of priorities. That was how it should be. That was how he wanted it to be, although not really, not at all.

He turned his attention back to the letter,

"_I've had a devil of a time finding you! I wrote to Locksley first, that letter was forwarded to Cambridge and John's returned it to me. Finally Parkes informed me you were at the old house on Ebury Street. I could hardly believe it – you always loathed London! _

_In any event, Edward____and I are back in town. The posting in Budapest ended sooner than we thought, thank goodness because __everyone__ was a terrible bore and Edward worked all the time. Reconstruction is a difficult business I know, but diplomatic wives have surely felt the brunt of it! _

_I absolutely must see my favourite uncle! We have much to discuss. Ring me on the telephone to make arrangements – ours was just put in, __such__ a revelation, we could only dream of such modernity on the continent!_

_ Yours ever, _

_Constance_"

Anthony let out a deep sigh. Constance was the only child of his younger sister, Harriet. He was her only uncle, as well she knew. Harriet died during the War and Constance had taken over where her mother had left off, sending numerous conversational letters offering a woman's advice on life and asking Anthony to recount the details of how he was living. Constance's correspondence was, however, far more entertaining than that provided by her mother. She was born at the very end of the nineteenth century but she was made for the twentieth - smart, vivacious and opinionated. At age 18, to the horror of her parents, she announced she was going to marry Edward Wood, a diplomat and an old acquaintance of her father. In the face of numerous objections she forced the marriage through and they left for a working honeymoon in post-revolutionary Russia. Constance wanted an exciting life and Edward could and did provide it.

Anthony had invited them to the wedding, naturally, although he knew they would be unlikely to get back. He had no doubt that she had heard that it didn't go ahead – '_we have much to discuss_' – Constance would want the details. He did not want to make arrangements to see her.

Duty, as ever, prevailed and the next day he found himself waving a greeting to her across the tearoom of Claridges.

She was breathless as she half ran to his table, "goodness it's busy in here, I've seen so many familiar faces in the lobby alone, I'd forgotten what a small world Belgravia is, no one changes or leaves! How the devil are you, darling?" She squeezed his good arm gently and turned away saying to no one in particular, "more tea, please?"

Anthony had been standing for the entire episode, his mouth slightly open shaped into a crooked half smile. "Constance?" She turned back and raised her eyebrows. Anthony quickly said, "It's good to see you too. I'm well, thank you."

They sat down and let the man pour the tea. After a few moments of teaspoons on china Constance tilted her head and said, "Really?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're well, you said."

"Yes."

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Constance." Anthony spoke in his lowest register, it was a tone designed to warn her off the topic. He doubted it would work.

It didn't. She ploughed on, "We received the invite, of course, but two days after the wedding happened." she paused, "or when it was supposed to happen. Things have just stopped working over there. With hindsight, better we didn't have the opportunity to make the necessary effort to get back to Yorkshire."

"Constance." Anthony was slightly more desperate now. He had gone almost two months without talking about Edith Crawley and the wedding that never was. The life that never was. He had fought back the thoughts and the tears on a seemingly constant basis. Finally he had discovered a delicate equilibrium at the edge of a dark precipice. He did not wish to lose his balance. Constance threatened to push him off. "This isn't…"

She interrupted, "What on earth happened? Your letters were filled with tales of this Edith Crawley. _Such_ a series of happy correspondence, then a wedding invite, then nothing and _then_ I have to hear from someone I barely know on my way through Paris that the whole thing was called off. I arrive here and London is positively abuzz with the news that you jilted her at the alter."

Anthony flinched at her chosen description, accurate as it was. "I don't want to rake over it. She is too young and I'm too old and, well," Anthony gestured at his arm, "there's this." He chewed the inside of his bottom lip and said weakly, "It's better, this way. Much better."

Constance shook her head gently and frowned, "But you were so much…"

Anthony really couldn't bear it. He didn't want to discuss it. In his mind he berated himself for ever mentioning Edith in his letters to Constance; his past thoughts and feelings were about to become weapons against him. So he turned to the only topic that might steer them away, "I'm going to America tomorrow."

It worked. Constance stopped mid-sentence and begun to deal with the new issue placed before her, "Good God, _why_?"

"I'm going to research farm mechanization, for Locksley."

"Can't you send someone for that? You're not an engineer Uncle Anthony and America, well, it's an unusual place. I'm not sure you'll get on, as it were."

"I'm not an engineer but I know a fair amount about it all now, particularly after the War. It's too important to leave it to someone else."

Constance narrowed her eyes and tilted her head slightly to the left. She thought for a moment, "too important" she said quietly, almost to herself. "It's also 3000 miles away, much further than Oxford, much further, even, than Ebury Street."

Anthony knew where she was going and he quickly interrupted to ask her about her travels on the continent. He became positively chatty as he threw questions at her about European capitals, reconstruction and Edward. Constance was no fool. She knew what he was doing. Evidently he did not want to talk about his young woman and she wouldn't force the issue, despite the fact that she disliked the inclination of her father's generation to bury their feelings.

The rest of tea passed without incident. Constance had agreed to manage Anthony's correspondence and ensure only what he needed was forwarded to America. They made their goodbyes and turned to go their separate ways. Anthony was relieved it was over. He had not suspected that Claridges could be host to such an ordeal. A female voice sounded behind him and his shoulders dropped.

"Uncle Anthony?"

Constance had followed him and he turned to find she had caught up. He looked plainly at her.

She paused for a second, "Are you sure? That, that you don't want to, well, to talk about it?"

Anthony shut his eyes and sighed, "It's done Constance. She's getting on. She'll be happy with someone else. It's done." He felt himself unraveling and he could hear his voice catching in his throat, "It's better this way."

Constance pursed her lips. She wanted to argue but she didn't, "When's your return?"

"I don't have one booked. I didn't want to be restricted based on a sail date."

"Oh."

Anthony kissed her goodbye.

As he turned away Constance asked, "you are coming back?"

Anthony looked at the pavement beneath his feet, "Of course." He smiled faintly, turned and walked briskly away from his young niece. He'd never lied to her before.

The next day Anthony boarded the ship at Southampton and Constance read about the death of Mrs Sybil Branson in the paper.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Edith tucked the copy of _The Times_ under her arm and walked down the west side of Eaton Square to Aunt Rosamund's house.

Edith had always had a delicate sense of self-acceptance. When she was younger, particularly in the years immediately before adulthood, she positively hated herself. She wasn't as pretty as Mary or as kind as Sybil. Her parents patently loved her sisters more than her, Mary was her father's and Sybil her mother's. Edith didn't fit with any of them and she blamed herself for it. After her coming out all of the same problems remained but Edith became aware that perhaps the way people treated her wasn't entirely due to her personality or her appearance. She came to a grudging realisation that she was not stupid, boring or plain, or, at least, not as stupid, boring or plain as others considered her. Her insecurities were ever-present, of course, and she blushed when she thought of her folly in trying to destroy Mary and nearly destroying her family in the process. After the events of the previous summer she had realised, the irony not lost on her, that the only person she had really destroyed with her letter about Mr Pamuk was herself. It had set off a chain of events that had led to her abandonment at the altar and resurgence of all her feelings of inadequacy.

Now, she had finally reached a sense of equilibrium. She was smart, she could write, people admired her talents and her looks. When she looked in the mirror she saw her own reflection and not a lesser version of her sisters'. She might not be happy, whatever that meant, but she was content. Or that's what she thought. But walking past the uniform houses, with the beautiful, crisp winter's morning encircling her, Edith Crawley thought she might be destined to wreck any joy she found and she begun to remember what it was like to hate herself.

After all this time she was still carrying Anthony with her.

With a small sigh she gently turned the handle to her Aunt's house and peered inside. On the balls of her feet she lightly ran across the polished hall floor. It wasn't a silent exercise but preventing her heels from coming into contact with the marble made detection less likely. She took half the first staircase two steps at a time but it was too much to hope that she would make it upstairs.

"Edith?"

Edith stopped still, slowly turned and hoped she did not look too dishevelled, "yes?" She was at pains to relax her face. A natural appearance was essential.

"Where have you been?" Aunt Rosamund's eyes narrowed and the corners of her lips turned upwards into a half smirk. It was as if she wanted to discover mischief in her midst. "Oh" she said, her tone disappointed, "you and those newspapers." She was looking at _The Times_ under Edith's arm, "you're almost as bad as Sir Richard. Remember Edith, scoops aren't all that matter."

"No. I dare say they're not." replied Edith with a weak laugh. She turned and continued to the guest room at a more leisurely pace.

Aunt Rosamund called after her, "They deliver us our copy you know – you just have to wait a little longer. Young women shouldn't leave the house before nine o'clock to pay calls to paper boys. It's unbecoming."

Edith could hear the conclusion of Aunt Rosamund's observation as she reached her door. Once inside she felt it click shut behind her and she leant against the wood listening to her heartbeat. The bed was untouched. Presumably Aunt Rosamund didn't know she had not slept in it.

After several minutes she knew it was time to start the day properly, she called for help and selected a new outfit. Whilst waiting for the maid Edith ran a brush through her tangled hair and realised her palms were damp. She was anxious. There was no telling if it was the night's activities, the morning's fear of detection or her acknowledgment of feelings long buried.

Looking onto the street below her window she wondered at her situation. An Earl's daughter, a journalist both reviled and admired in society, a spinster and now: a mistress. The journey she had taken since Anthony had ended their relationship so abruptly was quite remarkable.

In the months after the wedding she had wondered if she would be able to continue breathing, let alone living, _really_ living in the way that she had managed. She'd started a letter every morning, each one peppered with different measures of different emotions; anger, despair, hope, desire, loneliness. She'd never finished any of them and she'd never sent them. She had driven to Locksley and walked to the edge of the drive glimpsing the house. It seemed to be shut up - curtains drawn, lights out. She wanted to bang down the door but she never did. Edith decided she wouldn't beg for him to love her, she had pushed them together and then he'd broken her heart. If he loved her she shouldn't need to ask him to come back.

Then Sybil died. It was harsh way to learn that she could feel more wretched than she had standing alone at the end of the aisle watching him run away from their future. More than that though, Edith thought it would bring him back. If Anthony cared for her and certainly if he loved her, or if he ever had, he would know the horror such an event would bring. The pall it would cast over her very soul. A spark of hope came of Sybil's death. Edith opened every letter with small anticipation, heard the creak of the front door with a lump in her throat and shuddered with every ring of the telephone. He never came. Edith hated him for that almost as much as she hated him for the summer's humiliation.

The problem, she now realised, whilst watching the bobbing heads beneath her window, was that she didn't hate him. Not at all.

Edith had no earthly idea what to do. Gregson was started now. She couldn't take it back. She didn't want to, either. He loved her and he was funny and handsome and kind. She told herself it was alright to want time to think, to push Anthony out of her mind and plan for a better life without him clouding her thoughts. She'd pushed him aside after Sybil's death and she could do it again. She convinced herself that the night with Gregson had dredged up old feelings which could be defeated. She would go to Downton to think and plan. She would come back to London a new woman.

Edith felt better now she had grasped the illusion of control. She hailed a taxi to Covent Garden and headed to the restaurant she and Gregson frequented with uncommon regularity for two people unmarried.

Gregson was sitting in the bar by the entrance leafing through a competitor's magazine. She saw him as she ascended the steps. It didn't feel particularly different to seeing him on any other day. Although she remembered the gentle undulations of his chest and the weight of him pressed down on her. His hair smelt of soap. She began to feel more conspicuous, as if the whole room might be reading her thoughts.

Gregson looked up, he smiled broadly calling forward his dimples. He really _was_ handsome. "Edith!" He half ran up to her. "Let me take that." He helped her out of her coat and handed it to the nearest tuxedoed staff member. "You look beautiful, as ever".

"_Mr_ Gregson" Edith could hear the disaproval in her tone, "whilst I know we are familiar and this is not west London, I'm not sure dropping my title is entirely proper." She had spoken somewhat under her breath but she hoped he understood. Becoming his mistress was reckless but she did not wish to hand the gossips easy ammo to use against her.

"Of course, I'm sorry."

Gregson placed his hand at the small of her back to manoeuvre her towards their usual table. Edith could feel the warmth of his palm through the silk of her dress. This was not entirely proper either. She shifted her hips and stepped deftly away from his hand. She caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. It was safer to drop her title than touch her like that. They sat down.

"I'm not doing very well, am I?" he asked earnestly. "I've never done this before, obviously. I'm used to, well," he spoke in a whisper "being with someone, and then showing it in public, so to speak. It's different for us. I know. I was just so happy to see you."

"I understand. You must appreciate my position though."

"I do." Gregson raised a mischievous eyebrow, "I have always appreciated your _position_ in fact."

Edith did not want to acknowledge his clumsy flirtation, she dropped her tone hoping it would lead to more serious discourse, "Michael. This is important. I thought this morning," Edith could hear the lie forming, "about the dangers of this for me. That is to say, the damage it could do if it got out. An Earl's daughter in that sort of situation. I couldn't carry on writing for _The Sketch_, you certainly couldn't carry on as its editor."

"I know, I know."

"All evidence to the contrary."

"I _do_ Edith. I just love you and after last night." He whispered again, "I just want to touch you and hold you and run my hands…"

"Michael!" Edith's eyes widened and she almost shouted her response. She had not expected and she was not sure she wanted such intimate talk. "Maybe we should take some time. To think. We _felt_, which is what I wanted, I know, but I really do believe we should think now. To be certain that this is right, given the issues."

Michael furrowed his brow, "you've changed your mind about it all." He leant back in his chair and his shoulders slumped as though he'd been shot. "I knew that might happen, I just – I didn't - I didn't expect it I suppose, not so soon. I thought you might be mine for a bit longer than one night."

Edith felt grateful for his enthusiasm and guilty for her lack of it. She didn't want to disappoint him and she didn't believe it was the end for them but she wanted to fix her confused mind before they continued. "No, no, that's not what I mean" she searched for the right word to express her affection, briefly she considered 'my love' but she quickly passed over it and opted instead for his greeting from the previous evening, "no, darling, that's not it. It wasn't one night. I'm not saying it correctly, I know. I want to go back to Downton to think and to be certain about how this will work. I don't want to be caught but I'm not giving you up."

"You need time?"

"Yes. A little."

"I wish I could touch you. To show you how much you mean to me. How much last night meant to me. You are my everything Edith." Gregson was leaning closer and closer to her side of the table, "Go to Downton, if you must, and consider that."

Edith put on a small smile and said loud enough so that the next tables might hear, "well, thank you Mr Gregson, my next article will be in the post on Thursday. I'm due on the 2 o'clock to Downton." Edith stood up and leant on the table to step away from where they were seated, she felt Gregson's fingers touch hers as she did.

He stood and said simply, "Goodbye, _Lady_ Edith."

Edith smiled again and turned quickly towards the exit. Retrieving her coat she was relieved to be quickly on the street outside. The guilt had begun to feel overwhelming. Gregson was willing to offer her every bit of himself, right up to marriage itself and he would give her that if he could.

By the time the taxi had arrived at King's Cross Edith had convinced herself once again that she could defeat her feelings and create happiness with her handsome editor. Strength of will alone could do it, she was certain.

Some hours later certainty had been replaced, staring up at Downton's gothic walls Edith rolled her eyes and shook her head. She had been foolish. This was not a place she could think or gain perspective on anything. It had never been a refuge for her, not ever. She was not her Father or Mary or her Grandmama. For Edith, Downton was a house of emotional torment. She knew she had not come back to think. She considered going straight to the garage but the luggage scattered around her feet couldn't simply be left.

Going into the gaping hallway Edith was deafened by the silence. Compared to the bustle of London and the hum of society ever-present at Aunt Rosamund's it was like a mausoleum in the large house. Sadly apt.

"Edith?" her Papa had emerged from the front room on her left.

"Hello."

Lord Grantham was carrying a note. He asked his middle daughter, "Were we expecting you?"

"No. No, I finished in London earlier than I thought I would. I came in to find Carson. My bags have been abandoned rather unceremoniously outside." Edith glanced to his hand and furrowed her brow as her father made a fist around the paper he held and tucked his hand behind his back. She decided not to ask. If conversation could be avoided she might make faster progress.

"I'll ring for Carson."

"Thank you." Edith lowered her voice, hoping to inform but not be understood, "I'm taking the car for a while."

Lord Grantham mumbled a wordless acceptance as he went into the library.

Once upon a time Edith would have resented his lack of interest, now it was positively welcome.

Slipping the Rolls into gear Edith wondered if she had taken leave of her senses. She hadn't undertaken this drive in the better part of 18 months. What was to be achieved by it? What did she hope to gain or learn? Did she want to gaze on Locksley as though it were her _Pemberley_? Perhaps she would look on the house and know her feelings were changed? Perhaps she would look on it and know they were not. Edith felt ridiculous, determined, unsure and convinced. Answers to the questions weren't forthcoming but she felt the floor beneath the gas peddle and the growl of the engine.

Edith abandoned the car in the same spot she had used in the summer of '20 and she walked amongst the shrubs at the end of Locksley's drive. They were significantly thicker than the last time. An outside party seeing her now would think it most odd as she navigated amongst the plant life at the side of the driveway, deftly avoiding the exposure of the drive itself. Several cold nights had preceded her nature walk and the ground was hard from the frost. Finally, she was close enough to see the house in view.

Edith swallowed heavily at the scene of so many happy moments. Walking with Anthony around the grounds, on occasion taking his good arm and being led. A goodbye kiss placed on her hand. Sitting in the car after a drive discussing books, poking fun at Anthony's old-fashioned taste, tame flirting. The tips of her fingers tingled and her throat became dry. The emotions were creeping up, she raised her hand to her neck and circled the clavicle with her finger.

Then – a scratched scream across the quiet. Edith turned sharply and looked up above the house. Across the darkening sky four blackbirds had bolted, alerting the surrounds to their presence as they did. The beat of her heart was quickened. Skulking in the shadows did not seem so sensible. As she turned to leave she glanced back towards the house and saw a figure.

It was him. Anthony.

Edith's eyes widened and she beamed a smile. For a fleeting moment it was pure joy. She went to call out, to run to him. He was a long lost friend, a happy acquaintance; they would kiss cheeks, link arms and share stories. No one could listen to her like Anthony.

Then it was gone. Reality flooded in and the stomach knot she had nursed that morning returned. She could not run to him. He was not hers. He did not want to be.

Blinking back tears she turned her back on Locksley and walked away.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N Thank you all for the wonderful reviews. They are very much appreciated! I'm sorry an update has taken such a long time (and, I fear, isn't very good). For some reason I've decided to undertake this whole writing malarkey at the busiest time I've ever experienced at work but I have most of the story sketched out - it's completing and editing the chapters which takes the time._

_Hope you all enjoy anyway!_

_Chapter Four_

The blackbirds made an awful racket but they simply reminded Anthony, that even with the occasional high-pitched caw of startled birds, English wildlife was quiet, reserved even, in comparison with what he'd encountered in America. He stood still and watched the black shapes fly into the distant sky above his ancestral home. The cold pinched at his cheeks.

On arriving in America Anthony had established a base in Dallas with an old school friend who found himself in a Foreign Office posting no one else wanted. From there he travelled from state to state, city to city, town to town and farm to farm. The exercise started, like Anthony himself, with a significant degree of formality. He donned a neatly pressed linen suit and took on a driver and a valet to shepherd him through the trip. He carried a leather bound notebook filled with the names of farm machines, crude sketches and tables of facts and figures.

Quickly though, Anthony found he could not carry his English affectations around this rugged country. The valet was dismissed, the linen suits were decidedly unpressed. Eventually Anthony would simply pull on a pair of light trousers, don a white shirt, roll up his sleeves and consider himself dressed for business. Dressing alone was difficult with only one arm but without the regalia of the English aristocrat it was a vastly simplified exercise and he found, to his surprise and delight, that he could manage. The driver remained a necessity, of course, but he was more of a companion. He called Anthony the 'English Cowboy' and insisted he swap his panama for a stetson, at least when they were in Texas. The content of the leather notebooks changed too. They became travel journals, a record of the Americans he met and the America he saw. He was curious about what made this country the way it was, and so quickly.

Late one afternoon Anthony found himself sitting in the University of Kansas library leafing through a card catalogue. His heart leapt on finding the reference he was looking for – the diaries of the founder of a small farming town outside Salina - and he stood up to search for the stack he needed. He realised as he did so that he wasn't researching farm machinery any more, or keeping a travel diary; he was writing a book.

Lying in his bed in Dallas, with a choir of crickets performing outside, Anthony stared at the row of half a dozen black leather spines on his bookshelf. It occurred to him that the task of forgetting Edith had taken him to extreme lengths. It wasn't enough. At night, in the dark and the quiet it was Edith who swum around his mind's eye. He could not examine a machine or chat to a local or bury his head in a book; he was alone, with her, and yet, without her.

The letter from Constance arrived just as the days ticked over into 1922. Anthony knew immediately that this letter was not like the others. The envelope was thick and addressed in haste. Inside he found a short note from Constance, an open envelope addressed to him at Locksley in a different script and a newspaper article. Out of curiosity he flipped open the newspaper article first. The headline was stark, '_Tragic Death of Earl's Heir_'. Staring at him from the page was a photograph of Matthew Crawley. It was Matthew who was dead. He skimmed the article. Dead, but not without issue. Downton had an heir but he would never know his Father. Anthony paused for a moment and lowered himself on to the chair in the corner of his bedroom. It was a terrible tragedy. He felt for Edith most of all, Downton would be an even more difficult place for her without Matthew's influence.

He turned his attentions to Constance's letter.

"_Dear Uncle Anthony,_

_I felt it necessary to pass on the enclosed letter as quickly as possible in light of the news in the paper. _

_Best,_

_Constance._"

It was unlike Constance to be so brief. Anthony opened the enclosed letter. To his surprise it was from Matthew Crawley. It was dated two weeks before his death and it was a polite but desperate request for aid in saving Downton from financial ruin. Matthew called Anthony '_the foremost authority on estate management in the country_.' It ended with a plea for his (as then) unborn child. It was an extraordinary letter, the likes of which Anthony had never seen. In light of subsequent events it took on a tragic air. Anthony felt a lump in his throat. He wasn't sure if it was the death, the letter, the article or what they meant. They meant, he acknowledged with some frustration, that he would have to go home. He would endeavour to answer Matthew's last request. He wished he had less of a heart. He was afraid to return.

A month and a half later Anthony found himself looking out on a grey Berkeley Square. He sipped from a delicate china cup and marvelled at how far away America seemed.

"Goodness, you're a sight for sore eyes!" Constance Wood strolled into her front room. "Still arriving 15 minutes early for everything, I see? America can't have changed you that much then!" She approached Anthony and kissed him on the cheek."

"Hello Constance. You look well."

"Rot! I look pale and sallow. English weather has never and will never agree with me."

Anthony raised an eyebrow, "I think pale is rather good, actually."

Constance murmured her disapproval of the statement and poured her own tea. She turned back to him and fixed her eyes. She looked exactly like her Mother and Anthony knew what was about to come. "Shall we talk now or later about the fact that you've only come back because of a letter from an estranged acquaintance? A dead one, at that. I suppose I should count myself lucky you've even deigned to pay me a visit." Constance's tone was light hearted but Anthony knew she was largely serious.

"Constance, it took longer than I anticipated. It took on a life of its own really. And don't complain it was the letter that bought me back, you knew it would, that's why you sent it."

Constance smiled. "Yes. I knew your sense of propriety and your kindness would be moved by it. What do you plan to do?"

"I've written to Lord Grantham. I shall go and see him. Show him the letter and offer my help, I suppose. I can't imagine he'll take kindly to it but it's what Matthew asked. I'm bound to do it."

Constance clenched her jaw and rested her hand on her stomach, "You've already written?"

Anthony pulled the corner of a letter from his breast pocket, "Yes. Why?"

"It's not sent." Constance relaxed.

Anthony had a sense of growing unease, "why, Constance?"

"It's just that, if you're going to write, you should mention Lady Sybil."

Anthony felt uneasy. He swallowed a mouthful of tea. He was stern as he asked the question, he wanted a serious response, "what about Lady Sybil?"

"She passed away too."

The blood rushed to his feet. The tea was spilt. It pooled in the saucer and droplets plummeted onto Anthony's freshly polished shoes. Pressing his eyes shut he thought only of Edith-poor, dearest Edith, "She died in the accident? The article didn't…"

"No. No." Constance took a breathe. "The day you left."

Anthony's cheeks flushed and he raised his voice, "The day I left?!"

"Uncle An-"

He could feel his panic rising, "Constance! What were you thinking?! How could you not tell me?

"You were gone. I thought it best -"

"_You_ thought it best? Constance you had no right." Anthony was overcome with regret and anger. It was unforgiveable what he'd done, but he didn't know. He couldn't have known. He put his cup down on the mantelpiece and he begun to feel the despair give way to anger. Anthony gripped the edge of the fireplace with his good hand. He thought he might rip the marble from the wall. He turned to look back at his niece, "I would have…"

It was Constance's turn to interrupt and she spoke loudly to match him "you would have what? Come back? Run to Yorkshire-to Downton?! And?! Gone to her? Held her in your arms?"

"Yes!" Anthony brought his hand to his mouth and shut his eyes. He hadn't intended to reveal himself.

Constance was quickly at his side but the silence hung between them before she broke it, her tone was muted, "to what end?"

Anthony's eyes darted to meet hers. They were filling with tears.

"Uncle Anthony," Constance's tone was sympathetic, but firm, "what did you expect? That you'd be able go to her whenever it was bad? And then? You take yourself away again?"

Anthony spoke at a whisper, "This is different… you don't know her - you don't know, how it would have been for her. She would have been alone in it. No one in that house would have understood."

"This isn't different."

Anthony knew she was right. His argument was hopeless. He'd left Edith. He'd left her to happiness and tragedy. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"You told me it was done. That it was better for you both. I took you at your word. I didn't see the point in disrupting your trip. Matthew was a separate problem, I felt-"

Anthony cleared his throat, "I know. You're right." He hated that she was right, but right she was. Constance choosing not to inform him wasn't the cause of his current situation. The wedding, or the lack of one, was the cause and the blame for that was squarely at his feet.

"She's fine now. More than fine, in fact. Thriving."

Anthony was so overwhelmed by the sudden revelations of the last few minutes that it took him several seconds to comprehend Constance's words. He jumped to the only logical conclusion and tried to seem disinterested as he did so, "married?" It wasn't so much a question as a statement. Edith was a treasure, it seemed inevitable some other man would have discovered her.

Constance scowled and rolled her eyes. "No." She turned away from him and walked over to a tall row of drawers framing her large bay window. She opened the second draw from the bottom and fished out a paper magazine. It was folded back on itself. Thrusting the magazine towards her Uncle she said simply, "she's a journalist."

Anthony's lips parted slightly and he uttered a murmur of surprise. He looked down at the paper. Staring back at him was Edith. Pencil drawn and determined with the hint of a smile. He took it from Constance and stared at the page. The headline was printed in strong, thick text, '_Ireland's Lonely Path_'. The byline hovered below and to the side in a more delicate script, '_by Lady Edith Crawley_'. Anthony ran his thumb gently over her face.

"She's quite good. Controversial, at times. Phyllis Brand put me on to _The Sketch_. Imagine my surprise at turning to page 7 and finding your…" Constance paused briefly at her mistake. Anthony continued to stare at the page in front of him. "at finding Lady Edith there."

"May I keep this?" asked Anthony, he slowly pulled his eyes up to meet the gaze of his niece.

"Of course. I have quite a few issues actually. You're welcome to those as well."

"Yes. Thank you." Anthony's heart begun to beat loudly. The idea that he could have some small window into Edith's life in the time he'd been away from her was thrilling. There was nothing to be achieved by it, of course, but he didn't care. He was holding a piece of Edith in his hand and he was greedy for more.

Anthony spent the next week locked in Ebury Street reading and re-reading. She was an extraordinary writer and she had covered a complete gamut of topics. There were articles on suffrage, the plight of war veterans, pensions, one particularly remarkable column began with a discussion about car maintenance and dovetailed into an examination of the British car industry. Anthony didn't always agree with her opinions but he glowed at her fluent expression of them.

Eventually a response arrived from Robert Crawley inviting him to Downton. Anthony posted an acceptance and considered the way in which he had been quickly plunged back into Edith's sphere. He couldn't help thinking he should have resisted. The articles. The return to Yorkshire. The visit to Downton. He shouldn't have undertaken any of it and he should stop it before it went too far. He couldn't. He told himself it was all necessary - the spiralling consequences of Matthew's letter.

Walking around the grounds of Locksley on the cold winter's evening he acknowledged the truth: he was trying to capture Edith again, at least in some small way. That was the only genuine explanation for his actions. He promised himself he would be strong enough to see Lord Grantham and end it all there. He would return to his life away from Locksley and leave Edith's world untouched. She was happy; he would not ruin that.

Later that week he was staring at Downton's imposing entrance ready to do his duty to Matthew Crawley, but thinking only of Edith. His stomach was knotted and his pulse raced. His head was willing her to be away or busy or locked in her room. His heart, however, called out to her. He could not deny his desire to see her again, to speak to her, to hear her voice, perhaps to take her arm in his. Those thoughts had been his respite and his torment in the time since he and Edith had parted. They toyed with him now, along with the memories of what was and what might have been. Downton, like Locksley, brought it all back to the forefront of his mind.

Inside he was greeted, as expected, by the stoic presence of Carson, who scowled at his return. Lady Grantham stood at his side and managed a smile, "Sir Anthony. Welcome back to Downton. Lord Grantham is somewhere in the grounds. He has probably forgotten you were due this afternoon. We've sent someone to locate him."

"Thank you. Lady Grantham, can I say how terribly sorry I am about Mr Crawley and, of course, Lady Sybil."

"Yes. Indeed." Cora's eyes glazed slightly and Anthony recognised her demeanour, it was one he had worn on many occasions: she did not wish to discuss her loss. Cora cleared her throat and glanced at the staircase behind her, "Let's put Sir Anthony in the billiards room, Carson."

Carson's eyes widened and he turned to his mistress, "M'lady guests are ordinarily received in one of the front rooms."

Cora maintained a small smile on her face, "Yes. Thank you Carson. I'm aware of where we usually receive people. It's just that the billiards room is quiet at this time of day" she paused, as if underlining her point, "Lord Grantham and Sir Anthony are much less likely to be interrupted." She turned to look pointedly at the staircase again.

Anthony understood her meaning from the moment she proposed the change of venue but Carson continued to look back at Lady Grantham with a dumb expression. Anthony did not want to find himself in the midst of an explicit explanation of the point and hoped Carson would grasp the situation - Lady Grantham did not want her middle daughter to find the man who jilted her in the front room of the house.

Grasp the situation he did, his lips parted slightly and he nodded his head heavily, "Yes. Very good m'lady."

Anthony followed Carson into the billiards room, where no one would expect to encounter another person, guest or resident, at one o'clock in the afternoon. Anthony's heart was at a loss. He would not see her.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

Edith was annoyed. She should not have come to Downton. She felt worse than before and she couldn't write. The previous day she had finally cobbled together the first draft of her next article and now she couldn't find it.

All she could think of was Anthony. It was unpleasant and frustrating. The article was turning into a reflection of it all. It was a rant about the mores of the upper classes acting as a barrier to the proper management of the problem of the poor. It had a paragraph on the safe termination of an unborn child. Edith wasn't sure she believed it and, in any event, she knew it couldn't go into print in its current form. Gregson never caused this problem. Edith maintained clarity of thought throughout their acquaintance.

Edith scoured the dining room table which was still cluttered with paraphernalia from lunch. Amongst the half empty glasses and messy plates there was no sign of the imperfect article. Edith slumped into one of the chairs. The idea of beginning again was exhausting.

The grandfather clock chimed and Edith had a bolt of inspiration. She had spent the previous evening reading in the smoking room. The house had not been fit for entertaining since Matthew and no one used it without company. It was quiet and no one disturbed her there. She vaguely recalled throwing the article down with disgust, probably on her way through, which meant it was almost certainly on the billiards table.

She strolled with purpose out of the dining room, across the hall and opened the heavy door to the billiards room.

Edith was immediately aware of a figure standing in the corner with its back to one of the large sash windows. She was set on her task and habit led her to assume it was merely Carson, Thomas, Jimmy or even her Father, any one of the number of men populating Downton at any one time. The bright green felt was clear. She moved around the edge of the billiards table looking at the top of the sideboard running the length of the room for the sheets of lose paper. Whilst doing so she addressed the start of her query to the unspecified figure, "have you seen my…" Edith looked up to conclude her question more directly. She was stunned into silence.

Staring straight at her was not one of Downton's many male occupants but someone she never expected to see in the house again: Anthony. He stood rigidly still in a fresh tweed suit with his arm in a plain black sling. His hair was golden and neatly arranged. His skin was lightly bronzed.

Edith had wondered if she had imagined the encounter outside Locksley. She thought it might have been the return of the imaginings she had seen so frequently in the weeks after the wedding. It was real, it must have been because suddenly he was here, a mere five feet away from her. If she took two strides she could reach out and touch his chest. Edith looked intently at his lips and she glanced at the extraordinary blue of his eyes. The colour she remembered was the correct one, they really were just as blue as the picture in her mind. He was tall too, had he always been that tall? She would have to reach up to run her index finger along his jawline and crane her neck to kiss him. Only moments had passed but Edith longed to go to him and feel all that she was thinking.

But she didn't. She stood exactly where she had first seen him. Her mouth was slightly open and her brow was furrowed. She wasn't sure how long the silence lasted but she was not the one to break it.

"Edith. I-" Anthony begun with a surprised tone in his voice, but abruptly stopped.

Edith's eyes travelled over him from his shoes to the top of his head. She slowly shut her mouth; she could hear her Mother's lectures about 'gawping'.

He cleared his throat slightly and continued, "_Lady_ Edith".

Edith's shock dissipated. She balked at the purposeful use of her title. As if, once upon a time, they hadn't been together, engaged and at the end of the aisle. They had shared such intimacy and he wanted to disassociate himself from it. All at once Edith was angry. Not just for the title, but for all of it, for how he made her feel and act and for his abrupt return into her thoughts and her life. She was settled and suddenly she was not. It was his fault.

"Are you well?" Anthony asked with a small smile.

Edith took the time to control her tone of voice but even she was surprised by how cold she sounded, "Why are you here, _Sir_ Anthony?"

"In the billiards room you mean? Well it's…"

Edith raised her hand to stop him and clarify, "No. No. Not in the billiards room, here, at Downton?"

"I came to see Lord Grantham."

"You're tanned." Edith had spoken so quickly she had nearly interrupted him.

Anthony glanced down at himself. He was wearing a three-piece day suit. Edith flinched, she regretted the comment instantly, he would know how keenly she had observed him.

Anthony looked up and directly at Edith, "I've-I've been away", he said plainly.

She switched the conversation back, "Why are you seeing my Father?"

"It's a long story."

Edith raised her eyebrows.

Anthony quickly continued, "Well, I suppose it's not. Matthew wrote to me."

"Matthew?" Edith's voice softened in the confusion.

"Yes. Just before he died."

Edith whispered a repetition, "a week." She swallowed back the lump in her throat and wondered if Matthew had decided to keep his promise not to tell the family about Gregson but had instead told Anthony. Perhaps Matthew knew Anthony was the only one who could stop it. The plan had not worked.

"He wanted help with managing Downton, spending Mr Swire's money, farm machinery and the like."

Edith shut her eyes tight. She felt relief and disappointment in equal measure. Again she whispered her engagement, "machinery." The word hung in the air.

"Lady Edith," Anthony sighed and took a gulp of breath.

Edith looked up at him. He was straightening his back, as if he was in an army barracks.

He continued with a steely stare, not quite meeting her eye, "please allow me to say how terribly sorry I am, about Lady Sybil. A complete tragedy and, for you, I know – that is to say, I'm sure – it would have been difficult."

Edith knew there was a look of horror on her face. It was far too late for this. She wanted to tell him that, to shout it at him so that the whole house heard her. Instead she continued in a plain tone, "It's been 17 months and 12 days since she died."

"I-"

"I know exactly, you see, because that's how old the baby is. Baby Sybil – Sybie, we call her. Eighteen months soon, she's getting big." Edith stared straight into Anthony's blue eyes and she forgot herself, her surroundings, her situation, _their_ situation; she just talked, "everyone says it's so wonderful how she's growing up and it is, of course. It's just that every time I see her I'm reminded that Sybil is one day further gone. One day further in the void, in the ground. Mama is so grateful we have Sybie as a reminder, as if she's a little piece of Sybil still alive." She took a deep breathe and paused. When she continued it was barely a whisper, "But how can she ever be like Sybil if she doesn't know Sybil? She'll never know her and none of us are like her, none of us are good or kind. Sometimes I look at her and I'm devastated that she's here and Sybil –" Edith stopped. She asked herself what she was doing. No one knew about the resentment she felt towards the small baby sleeping in her sister's room. She couldn't tell her parents. The idea of telling Mary was genuinely laughable and Gregson, she'd come so close, but she couldn't. The parts of herself buried most deep were not for him and she couldn't force them out. Yet here she was telling Anthony everything with such ease. The anger started to creep back.

"Lady Edith-" his tone was kind and words of comfort would undoubtedly follow.

Edith didn't want them, she couldn't depend on them. She was on her own now. Interrupting again she said, "Matthew's dead." The words sounded silly, particularly after her speech. It wasn't the correct way to move the conversation along but Edith's head was abuzz with thoughts and feelings and emotions in his presence. She wasn't functioning correctly, she felt somewhat hysterical and it was a battle to keep everything at bay.

Anthony tilted his head at the statement. Apparently he did not need confirmation that it was a query because he provided an explanation, "I know. I'm sorry to hear it, by the way. He wrote so soon before. I didn't receive the letter until a little over a month ago. I wasn't able to come sooner-"

Edith interrupted, her voice was at a higher pitch than normal, "Fine, but he's dead. I mean, why come at all? He can't take the advice now anyway."

"The letter was a plea for help for his home and his wife and his unborn baby. The fact that he died. I had to come." Anthony wrinkled his brow, it seemed he was struggling to explain, "Coming here. To see your Father, to offer my help, like Matthew requested. It's, well, it's just the proper thing to do."

A laugh escaped Edith's mouth. She shook her head and cast her eyes up to the ceiling. She was on the brink – of crying, of screaming, of giggling, of all of it, all at the same time. Turning her back to Anthony she put her hand on the chair nearest to her. She curled it around the wooden cross bar and squeezed. The blood rushed to her knuckles. Edith took a deep breath and turned to face him again.

Anthony was shifting on his feet. He looked slightly pale. Edith knew he was nervous; it was how he became amongst large groups of people. Today though, there was only her, and she was glad he felt uncomfortable. It was what he deserved.

She parroted his ridiculous words back at him, 'the _proper thing_ to do?" Edith knew she was scowling and she could hear the anger in her voice. She couldn't help it. She didn't want to show her emotion. She wanted it all to mean nothing. But it meant everything. He proposed, he planned a wedding, he left her in a white dress in front of everyone and he never wrote to explain or visited. Even when Sybil died, she heard nothing. It took a request from a dead man he barely knew to get him back into her house and then he cited _propriety_ as the reason for it. Where was the propriety that had been due to her?

Anthony was blushing now. Perhaps he'd realised his mistake. Edith felt she couldn't continue. She certainly couldn't stay in the room and hear some laboured explanation or speech. It would almost certainly be a smokescreen for the truth anyway.

She looked at him, shook her head slightly and turned on her heel to leave.

"You write now?"

Anthony's voice had broken the silence and caught her just as she reached for the doorknob.

Edith spun back and faced him, "I beg your pardon?"

"You write?"

Edith furrowed her brow and looked at the wooden floor between them. Their encounter had been at an end, he must have realised but he was prolonging it, in a completely inelegant fashion, desperate, as ever, to avoid bad feeling between them. It occurred to Edith that if he hadn't been so eager to placate they might not have found themselves in such a difficult situation to begin with. "Well, yes, I'm a writer now, if that's what you mean. If I were a man, you might even call me a journalist but being what I am – yes, I'm a writer." Her eyes searched the room, unsure whether to continue, "_The Sketch_. I write a weekly column for _The Sketch_."

"I know. I've read," Anthony cleared his throat slightly, "some of them. Very good. You have a real talent."

"Thank you."

"The one about the failings of the Disqualification Act was particularly thought provoking." Anthony raised an eyebrow and a wry smile crept across his face, "and more than a little controversial, I think."

Edith did not smile back. He was trying to be pleasant, to make conversation away from the troubled subject of their past relationship. He didn't realise, she supposed, what he had walked into by bringing up that particular article. "It was controversial. For a month I was an object of utter contempt and derision. Let's see:" Edith paused, entirely for effect, because she knew exactly what she was going to say, "_The Daily Telegraph_, for example, called me a, "_militant, feminist, spinster with no respect for my own rank or breeding._""

Anthony was gawping now. The poison of those words hung in the air between them.

Edith ploughed on, "Your friend, Lord Jervis, wrote that. We met him and Lady Jervis, all those years ago at the concert. It's funny how someone I once dined with and talked to and laughed with can turn. He was even there on…" Edith tailed off. He had been at their wedding. They both knew it. It made the words crueller. She and Anthony stood in silence looking at one another across the expansive room. Just as Edith begun to talk again Anthony took a small step forward, but he stopped as she broke the silence, "Anyway, I suppose it's better to be controversial than boring." Edith laughed quietly, although she did not find any part of her situation funny.

"Lady Edith–" Anthony begun, but was unable to finish.

Edith felt a chill at her back as the door to the room swung open and she heard her Father's voice behind her.

"Sir Anthony, I-" Lord Grantham nearly walked straight into the back of his daughter. He blushed as she turned to face him, as if he'd been caught acting improperly, which, of course, he had. "Edith! Why- I didn't-".

"Hello Papa. Don't worry, I'm leaving. You gentleman apparently have important matters to discuss. I wouldn't want to get in the way of all that." She tried to keep her tone jovial as if he hadn't interrupted an ordeal. Edith quickly skirted around her Father's side and put her hand on the edge of the heavy wooden door. She intended to exit quickly and with an air of ease, as if everything that had passed between them was at an end, and meant nothing. She stopped and her hand slipped down the wood. Edith felt her jaw tighten. She needed to look back at him.

Turning her head Edith found Anthony was looking directly at her, his body partially obscured by the figure of Lord Grantham. She opened her mouth. Perhaps she could finished with some platitude, a small kindness or indicate that she forgave him, even though she did not. The words were not forthcoming. She pursed her lips, let out a gentle sigh and with a slight bow of the head said simply, "goodbye, Sir Anthony."


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6_

Anthony marched along Ebury Street. The sun had just risen and the air was cool. The pavement sparkled under the frost. It was a two weeks since he had returned to London from Yorkshire. Two weeks since he'd seen Edith.

The accidental meeting had been for nothing. Lord Grantham politely informed him that Downton's finances were in the best state they'd been for some time. He couldn't imagine what Matthew had meant by writing to Anthony as he did. It was a mystery and the one man who could solve it was unavailable.

It was as if fate had conspired to bring them together. A ridiculous thought, of course, but one he couldn't put from his mind. Not that it mattered any more, Anthony had removed himself from the scene almost as quickly as he had returned to it. Their encounter had been startling. Edith hated him, that much was apparent and, as he feared, he was still completely in love with her. Staying would have meant risking another meeting. Another conversation littered with unpleasant inferences and unspoken truths about their relationship and the ungracious way it ended. The worst part was that Anthony wanted another meeting, and another, and another. The pain of seeing Edith hate him was better than the pain of never seeing her at all. It was a dangerous thought and he was glad that he had been strong enough to take himself away.

He couldn't stop his mind running over it though. He replayed the scene repeatedly. He should have told her that she _was_ good and kind like Sybil. He should have offered the long overdue words of apology for never writing, for simply running away like a coward and only returning after some minor request from Matthew Crawley. Anthony wished he had held his nerve and taken the necessary steps towards her, to grasp her hand, look into her eyes and implore her not to dwell on the words of an over-privileged oaf who simply didn't like a woman who could express an opinion.

Yes, he had corrected his mistakes a thousand times over in his mind. He did so now on the walk to Belgrave Square. By the time he arrived at Constance's house he and Edith had agreed to be life long friends. The night before, they had kissed.

Constance did not appreciate Anthony's new habit of scheduling breakfast meetings at 7 o'clock in the morning. It took Lacy an hour to set her hair and Ella half an hour to dress her. The day had to begin at 5.30am. It was inconvenient, particularly when there was no good reason Uncle Anthony couldn't meet her in the late morning or the early afternoon. She told him as much on his arrival.

"You might let me take my coat off before you chastise me?"

"Just because you like early mornings it doesn't mean the rest of us have to."

"It's convenient to come here before I go to my appointments."

Constance scowled as they walked from her hall into the breakfast room, "what appointments?"

Anthony didn't plan on elaborating on the lie. The truth of the matter was that he had no plans, he rarely ever did. Since returning to London he had spent most of the time thinking about Edith and the rest of it editing his manuscript. He was a man of complete leisure and he wasn't particularly fond of it, "just, appointments, general things. Boring, really."

"Planning another trip?" Constance had an accusing tone.

"No. Nothing like that." The truth was that Anthony had considered it. It had been his initial intention – return, see Lord Grantham and go back to the United States forever. Seeing Edith had undone him somewhat. He could manage to leave Yorkshire but leaving the country somehow seemed reckless, like he would be accepting a future ensconced in solitary unhappiness. "I'm finishing the book."

"Are you finally talking to a publisher?"

"Constance, it isn't finished and… well, I don't know about having it published anyway."

"A book isn't a book until someone's read it. If it remains on your shelf collecting dust it's just" Constance spooned some scrambled eggs onto her plate, "it's just a vanity project."

"It isn't very good, I'm not sure anyone would be interested. It wasn't written for that."

"With your name on it and the subject matter, _someone_ will publish it, it doesn't matter if it's terrible."

"That is not a comfort."

"It won't be terrible. Let me read it, I'll tell you."

Anthony grimaced. The idea of someone reading it, even Constance, filled him with horror. It was a personal project, eighteen months of his life: a daily distraction from his broken heart. Whilst he wanted a review, the idea that someone could attack something so important horrified him. He said with a tone of finality and no true intention, "When it's finished."

Constance arched a brow, "Waiting never was my strong point, but alright." Amongst the small chimes of delicate crockery Constance's voice soon struck out again, "If you're going to stay in London, you've got to get more involved. I cannot be the only part of society you partake in. There is a whole city of exciting activity. You must engage."

"I do. I go to the Museum. Tea rooms, restaurants. Galleries."

"You go to the Museum to fiddle with the book. You go to tearooms and restaurants next to the Museum. That is not what I meant. _That_ is not experiencing the potential of London."

"I don't know how to do all that. I'm not sure I want to do all that. I'm not a society man. I'm not some cad-about-town." The thought of being surrounded by people he barely knew, making abortive attempts at conversation whilst sweating under his white shirt was anathema to Anthony.

"I'm not asking you to be, just take part. The theatre. The cinema. Accept some party invites. I've had you put on all the best lists."

Anthony rolled his eyes. He had wondered why he was suddenly receiving so many gilt-edged invitations.

The two passed the rest of the morning in a haze of jovial conversation. Before he knew it Anthony was at the bottom of the steps looking out on the green of the square. Alone.

He reached up his good hand and awkwardly lifted his collar around his neck. He sighed a delicate white cloud and begun the walk home.

Belgravia was barely awake at quarter to eight in the morning. There were precious few cars and the gentle, quiet scuttle of the downstairs staff preparing for the day ahead was the only activity.

So when a taxi pulled up to the corner of the Eaton Square it was an unusual sight. Even more so because there were very few people in Belgravia without their own means of transport.

A set of slight legs emerged, covered just below the knee by a pale pink dress. A plain trench coat overlaid the dress and the head was covered by a wide brimmed navy hat. A patterned bag followed. Anthony watched the scene intently as he walked slowly towards his destination.

The door was shut with a click and the taxi grew small as it sped into the distance. The woman did not move. She stood precisely where she had emerged on the edge of the walkway and looked up at the sky.

Anthony stopped in his tracks and his eyes travelled upwards to see what could be so engaging but there was nothing there. Just the deep blue of a fine winter's morning. Still she stood and looked.

She reached her arm upwards and took hold of the brim of her hat. Pulling it off her strawberry blonde hair fell out and swept across her face in the breeze. It was Edith. Anthony's breath caught in his throat. He took a step towards the nearest tree as if its branches could offer him some cover. He couldn't, however, take his eyes off her.

Edith put her hand through her hair trying to tame it in the breeze but to no avail, it swirled about her head. It was quite beautiful. Anthony realised he'd never seen her without it in some elaborate style.

Suddenly she began to walk briskly away. Anthony panicked, she was going and this might be his last opportunity. She stopped at the newspaper stand on the corner and retrieved a coin purse from her bag. There was time. He could run over or shout to her. As the newspaper boy handed over the white and black bundle Anthony raised his good arm to wave a signal and catch her eye. But he stopped short, overwhelmed with doubts. There were no words to say or gestures to make that could make her interested in seeing him again. It was a ruin and he couldn't see a means of repair.

The doubt, as ever, proved costly. Edith had disappeared.

In spite of himself Anthony returned to the same spot the following morning. He was there an hour earlier, just in case she was early. There was no reason to think she would be early. There was no reason to think she would be there at all. But he was compelled back to the same place.

There was no taxi. There was no Edith.

Anthony awoke at the same time the next morning. He put on the largest hat he owned, pulled on his large grey trench coat, picked up yesterday's paper and left the house. He sat himself on a bench sheltered by a tree on the opposite side of the road to where he had seen her two days earlier. He felt faintly ridiculous. Like a sleuth in a picture. It would all be for nothing. Some forty-five minutes later Anthony heard a taxi at the end of the street. It pulled up to the corner opposite and she emerged. His heart sang. This felt like a chance but still, he waited.

For the next three weeks Anthony made the bench his home. He cancelled all his early morning meetings, watching Edith for those brief moments took absolute precedent. She was a creature of habit, much like himself. The taxi took her to the same corner on three days of the week: Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. She appeared with loose hair and the ugly bag in the same way on every occasion. She walked to the newspaper boy on the corner, bought a paper and disappeared down Eaton Square.

Anthony told himself nearly every morning that this would be his last. It wasn't normal behaviour. He woke up feeling sick that she might not come and that the failure to come would signal an end to her presence in his life. When she arrived he felt tremendous relief. He was elated at the sight of her, at being so close. Then she would go from view and he would sit on the bench and battle with sorrow. It was vicious and difficult and wonderful. He felt so much in such a short space of time.

One Saturday morning in late March Anthony decided quite unconsciously to break the pattern. He didn't put on his hat or his coat. Yesterday's paper remained on the side in his study. He went to the bench, waited and when the taxi arrived he found himself strolling across the street to the newspaper stand. He arrived just as Edith did.

"Let me get that." Anthony pushed three coins into the newspaper boy's hand and flashed a smile.

Edith hadn't seen him coming. She was burrowing in the side pocket of her large bag to find some change. Her head pivoted quickly. "I-Oh."

"I should take that as well." Anthony held out _The Times_. Edith took it from him, a sort of polite reaction to being offered something just purchased. As she did Anthony divested her of the bag. The motion was seamless. He had impressed even himself. Now she had to walk with him.

Edith stared intently at the bag in his hand for a few seconds and then looked up into his eyes, "That really isn't necessary, Sir Anthony. I'm quite alri-"

"Nonsense I can't very well walk you home and let you carry the bag. That wouldn't look right at all." Anthony could barely believe himself. It was as though he had woken up possessed, as if he had decided to stop looking at life and start living it. There was no plan. It was simply to go to her.

Edith's lips narrowed and she once again looked at the bag securely held in his hand. She let out a small, frustrated sigh and she begun to walk. Anthony took two large strides to catch up.

"You're not staying at Grantham House?"

"No. It's far too large for one person and expensive to open up out of season. I'm staying with Aunt Rosamund."

"Ah, yes, how is Lady Painswick?" The mystery of Eaton Square was solved.

"Fine." Edith's pace remained fast. As though she was trying to walk away from him.

"Are you in London for long?" Anthony, of course, knew she had already been in town for a month, at least.

There was silence for several seconds. Anthony would have doubted that she had heard him, but it was so quiet. "Indefinitely. It's better for the paper. Writing 2000 words here feels easier than 200 at Downton." Silence again and then Anthony was surprised to hear Edith finish her statement with a question, "and you?" He opened his mouth to respond, to tell her that he too was in the City indefinitely even though only days previously he had told friends he had no firm plans. Suddenly, if Edith was in London, so was Anthony. But she didn't wait for his answer, she changed the subject almost immediately, "It's just that there's only so much one can write about life at a Country pile. _The Sketch_ reader is more cosmopolitan than that. It's necessary to be here, really."

"Yes. I can imagine. What's the latest article about?"

"War poetry."

Edith's pace had slowed. They were walking side by side with ease now, although Edith seemed determined to stand as far away from him as the pavement would allow, "from the Great War?"

"Yes. There's an awful lot of it. Beautiful and sad. But it's just going completely unnoticed. As though people don't want to remember." Edith stopped walking and turned towards him, "They just want to lose themselves in a haze of gin and jazz. No one wants to examine the past because it's painful, but it's the only way to learn from it." She took off her hat and stared up at the sky.

Anthony wondered if she was still talking about the war poetry.

"Anyway. It'll never get published."

Anthony's curiosity was piqued. Edith was passionate about the subject, he could tell, "Why on earth not? It sounds fascinating."

"It's too academic and too harsh. '_A diatribe against modern life told with the violent verses of dead men_.' Or so my Editor tells me."

"Well he's wrong. It sounds extraordinary and important. If he doesn't have the vision to publish it he can't be much of an editor." Anthony spoke with a smile on his face. He meant every word he was saying and they would only please her, he felt sure. Edith begun to walk again, march, really, and Anthony had to run several steps to catch up to her, "Lady Edith?"

Edith was flushed and her eyes were fixed directly in front of her, "Honestly, you don't know anything about it at all."

"I don't – I didn't…" Anthony was frantic. He'd offended her and ruined an otherwise uneventful few moments in her company. He was desperate to repair the situation but he had no idea what he'd done.

Edith stopped by one of the large stucco columns near the end of Eaton Square. Her voice was raised, as it had been all those weeks ago at Downton, "It's damned difficult you know, publishing in the 20th Century. There are all sorts of competitors and there's a duty to publish what people actually want to read. The magazine isn't just my mouthpiece, it's a whole enterprise, keeping people in work."

Anthony pawed for an explanation, for a justification, "I understand that, but simply publishing what people want to read is appealing to the lowest common life form. What you publish ends up being devoid of all merit. You can't shape and form opinion if you do that and what's the point at all then?! You'd be better off at Downton sewing and gossiping."

Edith grabbed her bag from his grasp and marched up the steps away from him. For one horrifying moment Anthony thought she was going to pull open the polished black door and disappear behind it forever. She didn't. She turned back, "You act as if it's some sort of – some sort of, _Penny Dreadful_! It's not. He's published some of the most far-sighted articles this country has ever seen. He's allowed me to be exactly who I want to be…" Edith stopped and cleared her throat, "on paper. Allowed me to write exactly… He rarely changes anything. I-" Edith took a breath and looked into the distance behind Anthony. She drew her eyes back to him, "Sometimes Editors need to moderate the writing of their columnists for the good of the paper. There will be a time for my article. That time is not now."

"I didn't mean anything. I was just talking, Lady Edith. I-I suppose what I meant is it sounds like something I would like to read. That's all."

Edith furrowed her brow, looked away and sighed, "yes, well." She turned her back and grasped the door handle.

"Lady Edith – " Anthony was desperate not to part on a bad note again. Desperate to remedy the mistake he had blundered into without knowing or realising. Desperate to remedy all of his mistakes.

"You can't come in."

Anthony tilted his head. He hadn't intended to come in. He certainly hadn't intended to invite himself in. It was such a strange remark; he was completely disarmed, "No. Of course. I hadn't..." Anthony took a breath and stared up at her on the top step. She was beautiful. Her plain green silk dress was embellished only with three strings of pearls and a cream coat; it kept catching in the breeze. Her hair was loose around her face and the individual strands danced across her cheek. "It was lovely to see you."

Edith barely moved a muscle and she said suddenly and without any detailed explanation, "I'm a reviewer now. For tonight at least, _The Better Half_? I'm not sure I can even write about plays or theatre or..." Edith stopped speaking the thought almost as soon as she had started. She bit at her bottom lip.

Anthony suddenly saw an opening to keep Edith for a while longer, "I'm going to that play tonight. Ticket from a friend."

"Oh. Yes, well - " Edith shook her head slightly as if to say something but she didn't. She looked down to her feet and back at Anthony and disappeared behind the imposing door.

It had been a curious exchange but for the first time in many, many months Anthony felt hopeful. Now he simply had to acquire tickets to the play.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7_

Edith stood outside the large black gate of Temple and raised her hand to her head, shielding her eyes from the cold sunlight. She could see _The Sketch_ offices in the distance. The tall red brick building protruded clumsily onto the side of the Fleet Street, in stark comparison to the uniform constructions at its sides.

She wondered briefly if it wasn't best to go back to Eaton Square and consider everything. She had rushed away from Downton almost immediately in the wake of the meeting with Anthony. It confirmed all of her worst fears. She still loved him, but he showed no care for her or what he'd done. She could not and would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her state of mind. Edith had decided to go to Gregson. She planned to forget about Anthony in the same way she wrote an article or learnt to drive or managed her grief: sheer perseverance and grit.

She walked towards the office with purpose.

The small desk in reception was unmanned. Edith peered through the glass door into the newsroom. It was a hive of activity and across the bobbing heads she could see Gregson's office at the far end. The door was slightly ajar. Edith smoothed the front of her navy dress and took off her hat. She was nervous, as if she hadn't been in the hum of the office a hundred times before. Her throat was dry and her palms were damp. The first occasion with Gregson could be ignored as a mistake, like Mary's Mr Pamuk, she could walk away relatively unscathed. But that was not the choice she was making, she would commit; it was decided as soon as she shut the door to the billiards room. Her life would be off the ordinary path. There was no going back.

Perhaps she could be happy.

"Lady Edith?!"

Edith looked over as she walked through the newsroom and found the smiling face of the sub-editor Mr Jones, "Hello. How are you? How's the edition looking?"

"Excellent ma'am. We've missed your keen eye looking over some of the articles though. If I see one more sentence ending with a preposition I'm not sure I can be held responsible for my actions."

Edith smiled and was glad to be needed, "well, I'm back now and available for all the proof reading required. Put everything on my desk I'll pick it up when I leave."

Turning towards the office Edith smiled at a number of the familiar faces and eventually she saw Gregson leaning against the doorframe looking straight at her. His waistcoat was undone, tie loose and shirt terribly wrinkled. He wore a broad, confident smile, "hello".

Edith felt a flush rise in her cheeks. He was pleased to see her. "Hello."

"Your article's late. It was due at 6 yesterday. The print deadline's tomorrow." He scowled but continued to smile.

"I know, I'm sorry. I have it, here." Edith held up her bag as if proving its existence.

Gregson stepped away from the door to his office and held out his arm, beckoning her in. Edith briskly went past him and felt his hand glance the small of her back. He shut the door.

They stood for several moments in silence. Gregson opened his desk drawer and pulled out two chipped glasses and a bottle of whiskey, "do you want one?"

"It's three in the afternoon" Edith was puzzled, "and I'm not sure I like whiskey."

"Have you ever drunk it?"

"No. But it doesn't seem like the sort of thing, that I-"

Michael smiled and poured two glasses, "you mean women like you don't drink whiskey."

Edith shook her head, "Not ordinarily." She hated the implication. Edith set down her bag and her hat and reached for the glass, "but, nothing ventured..." Her fingers overlapped Gregson's and for a moment he wouldn't release the liquor. He looked straight into her eyes and for the first time, he stopped smiling. Edith stepped back, glass in hand, and asked "Why the whiskey?"

"You've come here to tell me something. And I'll either need to celebrate or commiserate. Whiskey works for both."

Edith took a sip of the drink. It was strong and bitter. Not entirely unpleasant. "Michael, I'm so sorry for what I put you through. For – " Edith couldn't find the words, "For that – and then leaving straight away. It was stupid and foolish. I'm not going away again. I'm here, with you and that's that."

Michael broke out into a broad grin and finished his whiskey in one gulp. He glanced through the glass lining the wall of his office. No one was watching them but he couldn't do anything more than talk, "Edith? Do you even know how I love you? I would pick you up and spin you around but I'd never want to let go."

Edith looked down at the floor and felt the warmth creep up her collarbone and rest on her cheeks. Gregson was unafraid to say exactly what he thought and what he felt. She would never be accustomed to it and she had no words in response. She simply smiled and replied, "I'm not sure that would be entirely appropriate."

Gregson laughed, "Tonight. You must come tonight."

There had been no consideration of the practicalities but Edith thought she might be able to use the print deadline as an excuse to be out late. She could come back early and Aunt Rosamund would never suspect. Being the ugly middle child had some advantages. "Yes, alright."

Gregson and she quickly fell into a routine and, with the help of Aunt Rosamund's latest housemaid, Grace, who saw the advantage of keeping Edith on side, they avoided discovery. Excuses could always be made the day before and the day of publishing. The former generated a deadline which required late working and the latter was a cause for celebration. Invariably her Aunt went to the West End on Tuesday nights and slipping away proved easy then as well.

Gregson was charming and attentive. When he finished he would run his hand up and down Edith's back as she went to sleep. He kissed her goodbye in the morning and told her how beautiful she looked. Edith grew accustomed to his gentle affection and enjoyed intertwining her legs with his and sleeping next to someone else. None of it satisfied her, but it was a greater measure of happiness than many people enjoyed and, for that, she was grateful.

Edith looked hopelessly at herself in the mirror, "I'll never, ever be able to do my own hair. I need Anna, or Grace." Bathing had become somewhat of a necessity whilst staying with Gregson but the heat of the water usually unravelled her delicately crafted finger waves. Edith's hair untamed fell into fine waves stretching out in every direction. She looked like she belonged in East London, not amongst the prim townhouses she was travelling between. It was also mark of serious suspicion to look so undone.

"I could hire a ladies maid? She could set my hair too." Gregson crouched down and his reflection appeared in the mirror behind Edith. He picked up a bobby pin and forced it nonsensically into the front part of his hair, "what do you think?"

"Please be serious?"

"I am deadly serious." Gregson kissed her shoulder.

Edith recoiled from his touch and stood up, "I'll just wear my hat again."

"You're still angry about the article."

Edith put her dirty undergarments into the flower-motifed carpet bag she had acquired from the back of the wardrobe in one of the spare rooms at Downton, "I'm not."

"It's a wonderful article Edie. Passionate, articulate, well argued, well structured. All those things are there. But I can't publish it." Gregson looked at Edith whilst she busied herself, purposefully avoiding his gaze, "you know I can't."

Edith pulled on her green dress from the previous day, "'_it's a diatribe'_: I remember what you said." Her coat was strewn over the back of the armchair in the corner of the room, she quickly pulled it on, "I just hoped there would be a place for it in our magazine. Sometimes it's necessary to publish for the greater good."

"Ede" Gregson pleaded for her attention.

Three strings of pearls were hooked around her neck, "It's fine. I'm fine. I'll re-draft or re-write. I've got all my research on file at the Museum library. It'll be done by tomorrow." Edith looked out of the bedroom window and was relieved to see her taxi below, "it's here."

Gregson approached to kiss her goodbye in his usual manner. Edith picked up her bag and turned her head. He caught her on the cheek. She smiled weakly and left.

Edith was glad they rowed. She _was_ angry about the article. But, mainly, it was exhausting pretending that she shared his enthusiasm. This was a respite from the pretence. A pretence she was usually pretending she didn't notice. At the front door she jammed her hat on her head without looking back and half-ran to the waiting car.

Gregson called to her and was soon on the pavement wearing a half open shirt, with braces attached to creased trousers and no shoes, "Ede!"

Edith's eyes widened at the sight of him in the street looking so unkempt. Her eyes darted to the windows looking down on them and she hissed at him, "Michael, what on earth…"

"It's fine. It's 7.15. London's sleeping. I need you to review a play tonight, _The Better Half_."

"I'm not a reviewer Michael."

"You are tonight. Francis resigned to take a job at _The Spectator_."

Edith would have argued but the spectre of being so exposed in the street was inclining her towards compliance. She wondered if that hadn't been Gregson's plan. "Fine." She snatched the ticket from his hand and all but leapt into the back of her patient taxi. Edith wanted no more conversation. She wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet of anger for just a little while longer. She knew he'd be watching the taxi drive away. She didn't look back.

She felt more herself as she arrived back in Belgravia and the guilt for pushing away Gregson crept over her. She tried to shove it aside as she strode across the road to buy her paper. She exchanged a nod of acknowledgment with her usual newspaper boy and begun fishing in the side pocket of her bag for some money. She wouldn't need it.

"Let me get that."

Edith recognised the soft but confident tone of voice immediately. The blood rushed to her feet. She turned her head to find Anthony's blue eyes smiling back at her. He had taken the bag so quickly she barely realised. One moment she was holding it and the next she was not; a newspaper was in its place. Edith stared intently at his hand wrapped around the leather handle. Just beneath the unzipped surface there was a silk slip, on top of underwear and stockings and hairpins. It was the story of her illicit liaison in a small, carpeted package, "That really isn't necessary, Sir Anthony. I'm quite alri-"

"Nonsense I can't very well walk you home and let you carry the bag. That wouldn't look right at all."

Edith looked back down at the bag and weighed her options. She was caught off guard by his presence and she wondered what he made of her here, in the early morning, getting out of a taxi. If she tried to wrest it from him it might burst open and spill her secret. Anthony could never know. It was decided, they would have to walk together and she set off at a rapid pace.

Hours later she sat once again staring at her reflection in a mirror. The rounded face of Aunt Rosamund's maid appeared behind her, "do you want it pinned at the back?" This morning the face had been Gregson's, now, in spite of herself, she wished it was Anthony's. She marvelled at her ability for self-sabotage; focusing on the man who had broken her heart and neglecting the one who had not.

She had been brave enough not to wait for an answer to her question about his living arrangements, although not brave enough not to ask it. Now part of her wished she'd never told him about the play as well. There had been no expectation, only a wish to talk a little longer. The idea he would be there had never crossed her mind, Anthony hadn't been interested in the theatre when she knew him. But be there he would. Edith could feel the anticipation at the tips of her fingers, she tried to ignore it, but the slight shake of her hand as she dabbed perfume onto her neck betrayed her feelings. She told herself that she would avoid him.

Edith's eyes flicked to the mirror. She saw Grace pull a navy dress from her wardrobe, "Not that one. There's a peach one in there. At the back, with beading around the neck."

Grace tilted her head, "for the theatre?"

Edith responded without meeting her eye, "for tonight."

Commentators don't generally experience the phenomena of being a reporting critic. Edith had not expected that she would be ushered into a separate room. She excused herself to arrange an interval drink. Unconsciously her eyes darted amongst the faces in the crowd but there was no time to accidentally find him.

The play dragged. Edith was dismayed to discover that the second half would be longer than the first. She wondered if she lacked the capacity to appreciate it, everyone around her was giddy at the spectacle. She needed her drink.

Edith entered the bar and searched the delicate white slips of paper leaning against the stems of the crystal. Finally, she found it, '_E. Crawley_'. Slipping onto the chair conveniently placed next to her drink she discarded the paper and brought the red wine to her mouth. Glancing upwards she found Anthony looking down the bar at her, he gave an awkward wave. In her eagerness to escape the play she had forgotten object of her attention at the start of the night. The butterflies returned. He moved towards her, stopping to lean against the bar where she sat, "Lady Edith, hello again."

Edith furrowed her brow and brought the glass to the mahogany bar. She wanted this, but was unable to say a word. Anthony's blue eyes looked straight at her. His slender but broad frame was exaggerated by white tie and tales. In the soft lighting of the theatre bar he looked like the man she had known at Downton, the man who had offered a thousand reluctant touches, accepted several reluctant kisses and made one reluctant proposal. He looked like _her_ Anthony, but there was a confidence in how he stood and smiled and approached. Edith wondered if being with her had driven it out of him. Perhaps now he was alone, he was himself again and happier for it. Despite all the years that had passed, she was still grappling for an explanation. Finally, Edith found her voice. It was harsh, she couldn't help it, "Hello." In her mind she riffled through topics of conversation but she couldn't manage one, clumsily she asked, Where are you sitting?"

"The boxes. My niece, Constance, and her husband, Edward?" Anthony paused as if waiting for an acknowledgment from Edith. She remembered conversations about Constance and her travelling spouse but she didn't want to show that she remembered everything they had ever discussed. She sat still and stoic. "They have one. When they're not using it they send me the tickets. They're back in London now. You may remember Edward was a diplomat; they were in Europe, when -" Anthony trailed off.

Edith looked into the pool of red, "what do you think?"

"Of the play?"

Edith nodded.

Anthony drew closer. There was little space now between where she sat and where he stood. Edith's heartbeat quickened. He smiled, bowed his head slightly and whispered, "it's quite dreadful."

"It _is_ isn't it?!" Edith was relieved. She had thought, amongst the pearls of laughter, that she was the only one underwhelmed by the experience. "I don't even know what I'm going to write. I don't think I can write more than seven words."

"What would the six be?"

"Probably, '_It's quite dreadful… don't go._'" Anthony smiled at her and laughed gently. It was gratifying to see that she could make him smile, she had wondered if she had imagined ever having that kind of affect on him. "But I'm not sure that would satisfy M-" Edith bit the inside of her cheek. She had nearly said his name. His first name. "- my editor."

"I suppose not. You'll just have to draw comparisons to great literature. Poor comparisons, but you can spin the words out."

Edith shook her head and ran her finger across the lip of her wine glass, "I don't know anything about great literature! I'm a commentator – of contemporary events, normally. I can't write about language and syntax and characterisation."

"Nonsense! You read your way through Locksley's library. I didn't even know we kept Bronte's and Austen's until you rooted them out and forced me to read them. Practically the whole of the fiction section was a mystery to me before you." Anthony laughed again and smiled broadly at her.

Edith caught his eye and silence fell between them. He looked down at his feet. It would always be there. The time they were together, learning from one another, on the cusp of everything. Edith wondered if she could forget; if they could be friends.

She didn't want to be friends. That could only bring misery.

The bell rung to bring them back to their seats. Edith stood up.

"I'm not going back in." Edith raised her eyebrows and looked back at him. "Terrible I know, but I called my car. I can't face a second round of it!" Anthony smiled a slightly crooked smile and then let out a small sound of exclamation. He had obviously had an idea, "You're welcome to come. I can take you back to Eaton Square. If you have enough for the review?"

Edith sighed slightly at the prospect of such a choice. She glanced nervously over her shoulder, as if checking to see if she was being watched. Really, it was to see if she was being judged. She was judging herself, but powerless to stop the answer, "yes, thank you."

Coats were retrieved and the doorman whisked Edith to the car under the protection of a large black umbrella. The rain was light but persistent. Edith nestled into the corner and looked out on the theatre. Anthony was only just coming out; the stalls were some distance away. He was wearing a dark raincoat, the right sleeve was empty. He obviously hadn't taken the time to remove his arm from the sling and adjust it into the coat. The time such a process took had always bothered Edith, it seemed to her that it was unnecessary when a coat just needed to be put on for a brief time. Somewhere along the way he'd finally embraced the practical solution. He strolled quickly down the steps and stopped to say something to the doorman, both laughed. Waving away the umbrella he half ran around the back of the car towards the door.

It suddenly occurred to Edith how small the back seat was, it had been something she had used to her advantage before but now it seemed inappropriate, even dangerous.

"It's easing off. Hopefully it'll have passed by the time we get back to Eaton Square." Anthony clambered into the back of the car, in a somewhat ungainly fashion, as ever, due to his height, and took his place next to Edith. The car pulled away.

As expected they couldn't help but come into contact. Edith felt the heat from his arm through her coat. Inadvertently their knees touched. Her breath quickened and her pulse raced. Anthony cleared his throat.

Edith had been rather disappointed with the physical aspects of her time with Gregson. She thought it was a normal reaction. It was rare that a woman truly enjoyed the act itself. But here, in the back of the car, sitting so close to Anthony Strallan – _touching_ Anthony Strallan – Edith felt a desire she had not felt before. She wanted to experience what she had done with Gregson but with Anthony instead. Sheepishly she turned her head slightly to look at him. He caught her in the act and smiled. They were so close. She could lean over and kiss him. Or run her fingers along the back of his neck and through his hair. They'd be much more comfortable if she lifted herself up and sat in his lap.

Edith turned away. If she could have exclaimed out loud in frustration she would have done. This was a silly game. There was no hope in it. She'd be unhappy when she got out of the car, unhappy not to be touching him or talking to him. She couldn't spend the rest of her life looking for excuses to travel these closed avenues. Being with him, all the while knowing she would never really _be_ with him, was utterly futile. Edith wished she hadn't accepted the lift. She shifted her knees away from his, tensed her legs and pushed back into the corner of the car. She would be uncomfortable for the rest of the journey but she had moved herself as far away from him as she possibly could.

The short journey played host to some idle small talk. Mainly questions from Anthony about Edith's family. She was largely monosyllabic and looked resolutely out of the window.

At Eaton Square Anthony stepped out of the car and Edith quickly followed. He took her hand to help her out. She felt a jolt in her stomach at his touch. Looking down at her hand in his she pulled it gently free.

After a moments silence he spoke first, "It was lovely to see you again. If you continue reviewing we might yet see each other at another one of these innumerable new plays." He raised his eyebrows, "Or perhaps somewhere else in town."

Edith was resolute, "thank you for the lift." Before she knew it she was on the other side of Aunt Rosamund's door. She went to the small table at the side of the hall and put down her bag. Glancing up she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror on the wall above the table. Pools of light appeared at the bottom of her eyes and quietly she begun to cry.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N Thank you so much for all the reviews. I am so terribly sorry for the length of time between updates. I am still here and I am still writing but my work/life/fanfic balance is still far from ideal. Hope you enjoy and (famous last words) the next chapter is very nearly done!_

_Chapter 8_

It had been two weeks since Anthony had seen Edith, or, more precisely, two weeks since he'd spoken to her. He'd resumed his morning routine of sitting opposite Eaton Square and watching her emerge from a taxi, buy a paper and walk home. It was less frequent now, some mornings he expected her and she never arrived.

He had contemplated walking over and running into her again, or perhaps finding himself on Eaton Square in the early morning near Lady Painswick's house. But he couldn't in his mind conceive of a way to explain his presence, "I love you and I need to be near you" would be enormously inappropriate, albeit, completely true. She had made it horribly plain during their last encounter that she had no desire to see him again.

As a consequence he had regressed back into his literary endeavours. After seeing Edith would make the long walk to the British Museum library. He usually arrived before it opened and he would sit on the imposing steps and read the paper or, if it was Friday, he would read Edith in _The Sketch_. It was a little part of her he could enjoy every week. Her voice whispered the words into his ear; the soft tones echoed for hours afterwards.

He decided to add a final chapter to his book. A sort of comparative study between America and England. It required further research. It was a distraction ploy and he knew it. He wanted to be in London, to hold on to his routine of snatching greedy glances and hoping to stumble across her.

And so he lost himself, and, temporarily, as best he could, all thoughts of Edith, amongst the imposing stacks of the British Museum Library. On one quiet Tuesday he was scanning the introduction of a late nineteenth century history of Hertfordshire by Lord Salisbury. It seemed like it might contain material meriting inclusion and turning the page clumsily he walked through the corridors of literature back to his desk without looking up.

As Anthony turned the corner at the end of the long row of shelves he came to a sudden stop, bumping straight into someone. Their shoulder met roundly with the middle of his chest and he let out a gentle splutter of shock. A female voice exclaimed and the sound of heavy tomes on parquet flooring reverberated around the silent stacks.

Quickly he spoke, "Goodness, I am sorry." The figure in front of him was slight and a head and shoulders shorter than him. The lady spun around and Anthony was delighted to find Edith's features looking up at him.

She wore a light cream cable knit jumper, of the sort you might see a gillie wear, over a long navy skirt. These were work clothes, Anthony could tell, appropriate for the dusty and cold environs of the library. In her mouth she held a small pencil and her eyes were framed by small circular spectacles. Anthony smiled broadly in spite of himself, she was more beautiful every time.

Edith took the pencil from her mouth and raised an eyebrow above the rim of the glasses. She opened her mouth as if to speak but quickly shut it. Her hand darted up to her face and removed the glasses, with some speed they were folded and dropped into the pocket of her skirt. Again he thought she might speak and he waited expectantly, silently praying for a thawing of the hostility of the abrupt end to their theatre encounter. She didn't speak. Smoothing the front of her skirt with her open palm, Edith's cheeks grew to a rosy pink and she exhaled before looking down at the floor. Anthony realised as she did that they were surrounded by four heavy books; two had landed open, the spines out of place and the pages within forming into creases. Both bent down together and Edith's head collided with his. This time she exclaimed in pain but continued to stoop and collect her books.

"I am utterly clumsy today. I apologise again." Anthony put down his own book onto the nearest shelf and reached his hand out for Edith's, "let me take one of those."

Edith shoved the remainder onto the shelf beside her and brought her hand to her head. She scowled.

Anthony was embarrassed. His nerves had betrayed themselves. He had his wish: a completely innocent meeting and yet he couldn't find any words to justify his presence or to prolong it, but now he was with her he needed to stay as long as possible. So he ploughed on, as always, "I didn't see you. Walking and reading, a bad idea." Anthony paused, "probably the most common cause of all accidents in libraries." He was babbling but there was no alternative aside from the pretence of normalcy. He hoped she would assist.

Edith waved a hand as if dismissing his idle words, "suddenly you're just everywhere aren't you?" Anthony didn't know what to make of the statement. Edith brought the palm of her hand to her head, "I mean-" her eyes darted to the bookcase beside her and she exhaled in frustration.

"I suppose we have been seeing more of each other. Like the old days." Anthony winced, he regretted the comment immediately.

Edith sighed a sarcastic response, "yes, _just_ like the old days." Anthony assumed she would walk away but she didn't, instead she asked the same question he had heard some months earlier and with the same accusatory tone of voice, "what are you doing here?"

It was a fair question. Anthony liked books, Edith would know that, but to find him amongst the scholars' stacks at the British Museum was something out of the ordinary. With absolute ease and no second thought given, Edith became the second person Anthony told, "I've written a book." She tilted her head to the side slightly and her frown lines lightened, "I'm working on - a - a sort of last chapter, I suppose."

A moment more silence followed. Then Anthony saw something he hadn't seen since the awful day at the church: Edith's smile. It wasn't a complete smile, it didn't rise into her eyes and fill her face with warmth but it was unmistakeable. It was hope. Quietly she spoke, "you wrote a book?" She paused as if allowing time to allow the fact into her mind, "That's, quite remarkable."

"Not really. You write all the time."

Edith reached to the shelf and handed Anthony the heaviest book, she turned around and begun to walk down the stack back to her desk. She meant him to follow. Anthony's breath quickened. "I've never written consistently though. It's completely different writing a couple of thousand words a week on myriad topics. I don't think I could manage the discipline of a book."

"Come, come, I think we both know that's not right. You can do anything you set your mind on."

Edith cleared her throat and took the book from his hand. Their fingers met briefly. They'd arrived at her desk, it was scattered with open volumes and pieces of paper. She took her spectacles out of her pocket and put them gently on top of her notepad. She drew her eyes back to his face.

Anthony gestured at the table, "you've obviously got the capacity for the research."

"What's it about?"

"It's about America – farming country – that's where I was…" Looking up to the ceiling Anthony searched for the words, "whilst I was away." He told her the lies he'd told himself about the reasons, "I went for Locksley, to look into greater mechanisation and farming on a grand scale. It's such a different place. I ended up more interested in the local people and traditions than I was in the tractors. That dovetailed somewhat into days spent in dusty libraries rather than dusty fields."

Edith laughed gently and smiled again. The pink returned to her cheeks. Anthony briefly contemplated leaning in and kissing her delicate lips. A gentleman sitting two tables across from where they stood cleared his throat loudly and looked in their direction pointedly before glancing at the sign on Edith's desk, '_Quiet Please_'. Anthony blushed as if his mind had been read by the austere older man. He decided to be brave, "tearoom?"

Edith glanced at the watch on her wrist and shook her head. Anthony told himself not to be disappointed, he'd had more of her than he deserved. Her quiet voice diverted his thoughts. Edith reached for her small leather bag, "yes, that would be nice". She led the way.

The tearoom of the British Museum was located in a quiet red brick corner of the building. Light poured in via the large windows around the walls and through the roof of glass panels with wooden surrounds. They stopped at the front desk to be shown to one of the free tables. Anthony allowed himself a sideways glance. Edith stood slightly in front of him facing towards the restaurant. Her chest moved up and down quite markedly. The sun caught the side of her face and illuminated the crevice where her jawline met her neck. Her skin would be very soft in that particular spot, and sensitive too, he imagined.

The tuxedoed form of the head waiter strolled towards the desk, "Sir Anthony, good morning. Your usual table?"

"David, good morning, for two, but yes, thank you."

"Very good." The trio weaved their way through the tables. It was after breakfast but before lunch and thus the room was mercifully empty. Anthony had never encountered anyone he knew in the British Museum Tea Room and he didn't expect to do so, but if that situation changed he could not imagine how he would explain. Even in 1922 it was unusual for a man to have tea with a single woman without a chaperone, much less a woman to whom one had been betrothed.

Safely at Anthony's table in a particularly sunny corner of the room they were joined by a brown haired waitress in a black dress with white apron, "Sir Anthony, it's been too long."

"I was here yesterday, Louisa."

"I know. Earl Grey?" She suddenly noticed Edith on the chair across from him, she had never seen Anthony with company, "oh, I'm sorry. I don't have a tea list. I assumed he'd be alone. One moment." She hurried back to her station.

Edith had watched the scene with a slight smile and a half arched eyebrow, "home from home, it seems."

Anthony cleared his throat, "yes, well, if I was half as good at writing as I am at drinking tea I'd have written two books by now. But, alas."

Edith chuckled in response. It was a beautiful sound. The menu was provided and surveyed.

Louisa returned, "Lady Strallan have you chosen? The darjeeling is particularly good." Edith eyes flicked upwards and latched onto the face of the unassuming maid. She opened her mouth to respond but was silent.

Anthony was horrified. The situation was fragile and it could be so easily undone, "Louisa this isn't my wife. I-I am widowed, actually. This is Lady Edith Crawley, she's - " Louisa looked expectantly at him for a definition. Anthony wondered if Edith was looking expectantly as well. He thought of everything she was to him and everything she had been – a friend's daughter, former fiancée, a confidante, a teacher, a student, a passenger, a driver! A source of joy, hope and despair, all wrapped into one – the only woman he'd ever truly loved. He cleared his throat, "she's a dear old friend of mine."

He turned his head to look at her, their eyes met. Edith's shone in the sunlight but her face was expressionless. She looked back down at the menu in front of her, "darjeeling, please."

Anthony had not been rebuffed. Perhaps they would be friends.

Edith begun, "Do you miss Yorkshire? I didn't think you were a London sort of person."

"I miss the quiet. The rolling fields of green, but when all is said and done, at the moment, I'd rather be here." _With you_. In his mind he shouted it. It was a turnaround, London's attraction after the wedding had been the distraction of the city. It had been an escape from the sights and sounds which proved a ceaseless reminder of Edith. Now it was a means of access to her. Downton was a prison in comparison, here, he could seek her out and see her with impunity. "I can only research the book here and Locksley largely takes care of itself."

Edith begun to respond. Anthony was aware that her lips were moving but he didn't hear a word she uttered. He was struck by a sudden wave of inspiration. There was no need to consider the implications, the consequences of an answer, whether positive or negative. Once he'd had the thought it positively consumed him. Vocalising it was the only thing to be done, "would you read it?"

"I thought-" Edith stopped mid-sentence and held his gaze for a moment. She reached for the delicate china cup in front of her. She lifted it and almost immediately put it back down, "I-the book? Your book?"

"Yes. It's just occurred to me-that, well," Anthony swallowed, she _must_ say yes, "no one has, you see. I think having it published would be-it would seem like it had all been worth it." He was talking about the time away from her. If he could show it resulted in something perhaps leaving her wouldn't seem like such a mistake. "You're the best writer I know. If you thought it was good, it might be worth trying to get it to a publisher." He searched her face for a response. He trusted her opinion above anyone else. He always had and this would be a means of keeping her close, he knew that too.

"I'm not an editor. I don't work in publishing. I don't know what I could offer."

"Your opinion. Perhaps some notes. Just tell me what you think."

Edith bit her bottom lip and with a quick shake of the head she replied, "I can read it. I can't promise the value I'll bring but I can give you my thoughts.

Anthony grasped the table leg beside his knee with his good hand. He squeezed it hard - a physical translation of his excitement; it stopped him from cheering out loud. He responded enthusiastically but with appropriate decorum, "excellent. Thank you, I'm so glad."

"I should really get back to my own writing. Deadline."

Anthony's stomach dropped. At least this time he knew he would see her again. They stood and walked towards the entrance of the dining room, "would you like me to bring the manuscript to Eaton Square?"

"No, no." Edith was slightly flushed, "I'll pick it up. From you."

"Tomorrow?"

Edith hooked her bag over her shoulder and cleared her throat gently, "next week."

Anthony was embarrassed. She had a busy life. He'd forgotten he was not the centre of her world, as she was to his. "Of course."

"Next Tuesday then, at 2?"

"Yes."

"See you then, Sir Anthony." Edith held out her hand, as if she meant him to shake it, or perhaps kiss it, but before he could act she quickly lowered it. Nodding a small smile she turned and left.

Anthony stood and watched her slender figure disappear around the corner. Half of him went with her. His breathing felt laboured and his legs were heavy. He could only cling desperately to the promise: next Tuesday at 2. He knew the reasons they weren't married, the reasons he'd let her go. They still made sense. But he also knew that he couldn't be happy without Edith. He couldn't be anything or anyone at all.


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9_

Edith stared intently at the routine red bricks of Anthony's London home. She was across the other side of the street, several houses down. It was simple and austere. The white stucco, so popular several streets away, was starkly absent. It was expensive to maintain and became dirty almost overnight. The simple facade reminded her of Anthony: practical, strong and unassuming.

She was early. She'd left before she needed to and walked faster than she'd intended. Beads of moisture collected under her hairline and clustered on her temples. Edith brought her fingers to her brow and tried to brush them away. Her fingers shook and her heart thumped in her chest. She felt something long absent from her life: excitement. It had built for the entire week. She cursed herself for putting the meeting off, for deflecting her eagerness by implying she had a busy schedule. The prospect of seeing him had overwhelmed her every thought and stretched to the tip of every limb. The last time she felt this way was before the play. The time before that it was her wedding day. When Anthony disappeared from her life he all but took this strength of feeling with him. She'd existed in neutral, suddenly she found fifth gear. It felt extraordinary after years of quiet desperation.

Edith needed answers as well. Ever since they'd met again at Downton she hadn't been in control of her own mind. Her thoughts turned to Anthony at every opportunity. She shrank back from Gregson and, worst of all, her writing suffered; it was anxious and angry - the product of a fractured mind. Ironically, seeing Anthony had proved to be the only solution, a respite from thinking about him provided by the joy and yet, acute pain, of actually being with him. It was no way to live. He was constantly with her and she wanted to be free. She would read the book; it would be a window into his life after he had so unceremoniously excluded her from his future. They would talk. And then, when the moment presented itself she would demand an explanation.

Edith skipped across the road, unable to wait.

A butler she didn't recognize opened the door to Anthony's neat London home. Almost immediately she noticed Anthony's figure behind him, "you're early."

The unnamed staff member stepped aside, recognizing that his role in greeting had been superseded. Edith feigned ignorance, "Am I?" Trying to mask the tremble in her fingers she unbuttoned her light blue coat. Short of breath and short of words, Edith wondered, casting her mind back, whether she had always found it so difficult to find conversation when she was with him. She couldn't remember. Talking to him in anger had proven easy but now she was trying to forge a different path and she didn't know how to start.

"Not that it's any trouble, of course." Anthony took her coat and handed it off to the footman. Edith relaxed just enough to take in her surroundings. The entrance hall was extremely simple. Painted cream with a large wrought iron light at the centre of the ceiling, it was late nineteenth century in style. The floor was old-fashioned too, a mosaic of faded tiles of different shades of red, yellow and green. It seemed Anthony wasn't planning on spending enough time in London to make it worthwhile updating the decoration.

He stepped around her and opened the door to her left. His voice cracked slightly, "this way."

Edith stepped into the room and was immediately bathed in light. A large bay window at the front provided a picture of the street outside and double doors at the other end of the room opened onto the dining room and the doors at the other side of the table revealed a glorious view of a handsome garden. Immediately Edith felt more comfortable. There were large bookshelves running the length of the far wall and well-worn furniture. On the wall beside the door was a large marble fireplace, it didn't impose itself on the room but simply blended providing a central focus point. In the middle of the room was a comfortable looking green settee, facing towards the hearth and two wingback chairs placed at right angles to it, one leather, one not. It reminded her of her room at Downton - completely familiar. Yet, she was somehow reverent of where she stood; this place was Anthony's and she'd never seen it before.

Anthony knocked his hand on the desk positioned in the bay window, so that any occupant of it could watch the world walk by, "Ah-so sorry. I've left the manuscript in the upstairs study. Give me a moment."

Edith gave a gentle nod of acknowledgment and watched him out of the door. She walked around the large green settee and wingback chair and ran her fingers lightly along the spines of the texts filling the shelves. She stopped at _The Rise and Fall_ and drew it out. Flipping to a page at the centre she traced her finger along the pencil underlining. At the bottom she saw Anthony's neat writing. She wondered if he owned a single history book he hadn't written in. She put it back. She was examining the standing tiffany lamp in the corner when something caught her eye. A flash of bright red tucked to the side of the fireplace.

There was a wooden plinth, plainly a bust stood upon it but she could only see the body up to the shoulders and half the neck. Obscuring the head was a very large wide brimmed felt hat. The band tied around it wasn't a band at all, but a piece of bright red cloth with white flecks. It met in a messy looking bow with an inelegantly balled piece of fabric at its centre. Edith had seen this sort of hat before, but only in photographs and during one black and white film at the cinema. Curiosity got the better of her.

Drawing her gloves from her fingers she placed them with her small bag on the chair nearest to her. With a glance at the door she went over to the hat and took it off the statue. A long dead Strallan looked back up at her. The hat was heavy and the brim was stiff, as though starched to keep it in place. Edith went to the mirror above the fireplace and with another furtive look at the door she placed it atop her head.

It was far too large and balanced on her eyebrows. It looked ridiculous. A satire on other hats. She reached up to brush a strand of hair away from her eye and the hat moved about her head. It dipped at the front and completely obscured her vision. Edith let out an exclamation of surprise.

Before she could move to lift it the light came flooding back to her eyes. Edith looked up into the mirror and saw Anthony looking down at her holding the top of the hat. He held her gaze for a moment before burrowing his eyebrows into his forehead, tilting his head and laughing. In spite of herself she laughed in response and her cheeks flushed. She looked down and ducked out from under the hat, "sorry, I couldn't help myself."

"Apparently not." Anthony rested the hat on coffee table next to a blue and white teapot and two china cups on top of a silver tray.

"Oh dear, I didn't even see the staff come in. I must have made quite the spectacle." Edith was suddenly aware her discomfort had disappeared. She could talk and it was normal, it was right - the two of them alone together. She busied herself and poured out the tea. Anthony leant against the fireplace, she could feel his eyes on her, his form dominating the room, "dash of milk, is it?"

Anthony murmured and responded, "yes." He stepped away from the hearth and took a seat. Gently he drew the leg of each trouser upwards slightly and reached for the saucer.

Edith looked at the monstrous hat juxtaposed against the blue and white of the Doulton and the shine of the polished table. She put down her tea and gestured at it, "souvenir?"

"Well, yes, I mean, of sorts, it's my hat."

It was not the answer Edith had expected and she couldn't help but giggle in response, "really?"

Anthony sat back in his chair and smiled, "you don't believe me?"

Edith stood up and grasped the top of the hat, "Sir Anthony, I have seen you in top hats, shooting hats, flat caps, even the occasional panama. _This_" Edith held out the object of contention, "is something quite different." She laughed again. She'd seen him in every mode of life. This was a bridge too far, she was certain he was pulling her leg. She smiled and turned away to return it to its spot on top of the statue by the fireplace.

Behind her she heard Anthony's voice, "all right, I'll show you."

Edith ran the tips of her fingers along the brim and imagined Anthony in the middle of a cornfield, tweed suited, topped with a stetson. It was silly, he'd wear a panama in that sort of weather like all the men of his class, like all the men around her, except Gregson, he might be able to wear one and not look quite so ridiculous. Edith spun back, "I'm sorry. What did you-" She stopped mid-sentence and took a small step back. Anthony had removed his jacket and was half way through undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. Edith opened her mouth to speak but didn't know what to say. He deftly used his good hand to flick the last two buttons out of their openings and shrugged the grey fabric off his shoulders. Her voice returned, "what on earth are you doing?"

Anthony pulled his tie from his neck and moved it from side to side before looping it over his head. He gave her a crooked smile, "showing you." He opened the top button of his shirt and then the second. His Adam's apple rolled up his neck as he swallowed. His hand paused briefly before he unfastened the third. The smooth skin at the dip of his throat was exposed. Edith imagined tracing her index finger around it before flitting her fingers up and down his neck. He pulled the top of his collar apart, exposing a larger measure of his collarbone. He spoke as he did so, "it wouldn't look right with a tweed three piece. That's not what I wore in Kansas or Texas or Colarado or anywhere over there. You need the correct picture."

Edith bit her bottom lip at the thought of how much might have to come off to give the correct picture. Anthony reached down to his right wrist and she heard the metallic click of his cufflink. It spun as he dropped it onto the writing desk. He stretched out the starched white fabric and folded it back on itself several times over. The ring of fabric stopped just above his elbow. His arm was covered in a thicket of light brown hairs. This was the first time she'd ever seen underneath his sleeves. With everything she knew about him and everything she felt about him it seemed extraordinary that she'd never seen the space between his wrist and his elbow.

Anthony stopped suddenly and held his left arm in front of his body. His shoulders sloped towards the floor, "ah. I hadn't thought. Silly really."

"What is it?"

Anthony bit the inside of his cheek, "Taking out the right one, I've never had to do it." He cleared his throat, "when I did this, well, I wouldn't have cufflinks in to begin with."

Edith could hear the disappointment in his voice and, not for the first time that week and certainly not for the last, she satisfied herself without thinking of the consequences. She put down her cup, "you've come this far, you can't possibly stop now."

Edith walked towards him and took his left arm in her hand; it was warm. She looked into his blue eyes and tried to seem nonchalant, as if her heart wasn't threatening to beat its way through her chest. Softly, she smiled and looked down at her task. She drew his cuff around the top of his wrist and clicked the bar of the gold link so it was straight. Slowly, she drew it through the folds of white fabric. The palm of her hand skimmed the delicate blue veins that travelled along his wrist and disappeared beneath the starched fold. Her breath caught in her throat and she stepped back and wrapped her fingers around the cool metal. She wondered if it would be obvious she'd done this before, only once or twice, Gregson wasn't particularly deft with his cufflinks, most of his shirts had buttons.

Anthony lips flickered into a smile, "thank you."

Edith squeezed the metal object in her hand, "Do you need me to roll the fabric?"

"No. _That_ I can do."

Edith was deeply disappointed at his refusal, her palms tingled and her mouth moistened at the prospect of skimming his unseen flesh, even if it was only his arm, with the palm of her hand.

It was ungainly but Anthony folded the fabric with his fingers and the bend of his wrist and then he pulled it above his elbow with his mouth. He pushed his braces off his shoulders and they fell one by one, dangling either side of his hips, "One last thing." Anthony pulled his shirt out, not completely, but so the fabric pooled around the edges of his trousers.

"Two things, you mean". Edith retrieved the hat from the statue and handed it to him.

"Thank you. Ready?"

"Absolutely."

Anthony turned the hat in his hands so that the red bow was at the side and the dip in the top travelled from the front to the back. He dropped his head slightly and planted the hat firmly. He turned his head to the side and raised his chin. Finally he planted his left hand on his hip and kept the pose for several seconds.

Edith could see it now. Clear as day. The cornfields, the setting sun, the smell of the cooling earth and him in the middle of it. She had been wrong, Anthony was the true owner of the hat. She felt as she had on the evening of the play, this was a different Anthony to the one she had known. As he stood in front of her, framed by the light of the bay window, he seemed free and content in a way he had never been before. This was the man he'd become whilst he had been away from her. He was happy; she could see it. The stetson – or rather what the stetson represented had made him happy – Edith didn't know whether to be angry or sad. He was someone new and she was the same as ever.

Anthony broke the pose, "Of course, there wouldn't be any braces, I'd usually wear a belt and linen trousers rather than -." He trailed off, looking at her for a reaction he continued, "it's less convincing in the grey light of London." Edith was silent in sadness and looked him up and down, "They called me _The English Cowboy_, honestly they did." Anthony looked down at the floor and lifted one of his braces back onto his shoulder. He gestured in Edith's direction, "you still don't believe me."

Edith shook her head lightly and smiled, "No -no." She searched for the words to show him how much she believed him, "I do. I really do."

Anthony smiled and cleared his throat, "I-er-I feel suddenly conspicuous."

Edith laughed, "Only suddenly?"

"I'm better at undressing than dressing. I-I mean" Anthony grabbed his coat and his waistcoat from the sofa, "I'll fetch my valet, and then"

Edith finished the thought, "the book."

"Yes." Gingerly he took the hat off and handed it to her and padded, somewhat sheepishly, into the hall.

Edith took several deep breaths and tried to compose herself.

On the desk, behind where Anthony had revealed himself as the English cowboy, were ten or so leather bound volumes. She flipped open the top one and found the curl of his precise handwriting, "_Tuesday 2__nd__ September 1920_". Precisely two months after their failed nuptials. Edith's lips parted slightly, she wondered if the key to it all was amongst the pages.

Anthony came back into the room and Edith quickly shut the front cover, as if caught prying into private property, "sorry."

He was fully returned to an appropriate status of dress. Edith was more than a little disappointed to see him once again hidden.

Anthony waved away her apology, "Not at all, my intention is to allow you to read the book during the process of criticising it."

"Of course. That would be helpful."

Anthony's blue eyes sparkled, "necessary even."

"Yes."

They talked for two of the shortest hours Edith had ever experienced. Anthony was worried about the style of the book; it veered between history, biography, autobiography and fiction. He had strong ideas about the sort of authors he hoped to imitate: Gibbon, Trevelyan and Wilde. Edith couldn't help but guffaw as Anthony professed a soft spot for Wilde's whimsical style. Looking at the carriage clock on the mantle Edith heard her Mother's voice in the back of her mind. She was close to the time at which one wore out their welcome. She didn't want to leave. The gnawing at the base of her stomach told her she never wanted to leave, but she knew she must.

Edith deposited the manuscript into the large leather bag she had bought with her. Anthony eyed the bag, "I'll walk with you?"

Edith longed to accept his offer, but she couldn't take the chance that they'd be discovered. The risk was greater even than that she was taking with Gregson. That relationship would ruin only her reputation. To be forced to give up Anthony before she was ready would ruin her very existence.

Edith put the manuscript onto the desk in the corner of her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed looking at the bundle. She and Anthony had planned at least seven meetings to cover two chapters each time. The impression she gave was that she would prepare her critiques for each session but she couldn't wait to read it, it would be read before she went to sleep.

Standing, she went to pick up the first leather volume. She felt a weight against her leg. Fishing in her cardigan pocket she discovered Anthony's cufflink. She had no recollection of taking it. Gently she placed it next to her dressing table mirror. The gold glinted. The sensation of his skin beneath her fingers replayed in her mind.


End file.
